Spiderweb

By Alice Campbell

"So Jeanne has a lover," she concluded with a touch of amused wonder. "But what a lover!"

Somehow the creature had suggested an undertaker.

Alone in Paris after arriving from America, Catherine West finds herself swiftly and dangerously involved in the mysterious case of her cousin, Madame Germaine Bender. Catherine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean Street Press
• Release date: Jun 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781915014917

Alice Campbell

Alice Campbell (1887-1955) came originally from Atlanta, Georgia, where she was part of the socially prominent Ormond family. She moved to New York City at the age of nineteen and quickly became a socialist and women's suffragist. Later she moved to Paris, marrying the American-born artist and writer James Lawrence Campbell, with whom she had a son in 1914.Just before World War One, the family left France for England, where the couple had two more children, a son and a daughter. Campbell wrote crime fiction until 1950, though many of her novels continued to have French settings. She published her first work (Juggernaut) in 1928. She wrote nineteen detective novels during her career.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Catherine did not at first know what to make of Geoffrey Macadam. Did his stiffness betoken mere British reserve, or was he trying to hide a natural annoyance at having a stranger thrust upon him, threatening the peace of his journey to Paris?

If the latter, she longed to tell him how hotly she shared his resentment, how for eight days across the Atlantic she had been fleeing from the officious patronage of the lady now needlessly effecting the introduction.

It’s no fault of mine, her eyes strove to convey. I promise not to take advantage of it!

The very next instant she caught that curious, almost startled look on his face which set her wondering, asking herself if he were really as wooden as she had imagined.

That look one may take as the starting point of the story . . .

Mrs. Hugh Tyler Pope—the Hugh rendered as Huge by some of their fellow-travellers—was no more to be denied than the forces of nature. She overcame by sheer weight of fatuity, and having constituted herself Catherine’s proctress on the voyage was determined to see matters through. Useless for the girl to protest that she wanted no assistance in finding her seat. Overborne by the pressure of a mighty bust she was propelled the full length of the train, while a voice richly-oiled with kind intentions shouted for the benefit of all and sundry:

"Now, if only we’d met you sooner, dear, we could have had your piece reserved along with ours. Such a pity! It’s just too dreadful to think of you travelling all this way by your little lonesome? Still it cant be helped now, the train’s so jammed. Is this your seat? So it is. At any rate it’s a corner one. Porter! Mettay le grand sac de Mademerselle ploos au coin, il y a un carton aussi. These foreigners don’t give a hoot for your convenience, you have to show ’em everything."

It was at this precise moment that, clogging the aisle with her immense mink coat and treading on one pair of toes after another, she had spied the retiring male in the opposite corner and shrilled with recognition.

Why, if it isn’t Mr. Macadam! Now, what do you know about that? Been up to Havre on business? Well, well! Catherine, my dear—I want you to meet the very nicest man in all Paris, Englishman. Mr. Macadam, let me present a little friend of mine I’ve met on the boat, Miss West, from Boston. She’s on her way to visit a relative in the Avenoo Henri Martin—you know, Mrs. Harry Belmont Bender, whose husband was killed last year in that awful motor accident in Massachoosetts. So sad!

Extremely painful, nor was this the end. Not content with entrusting her young friend to the Englishman’s care (As though I were a congenital idiot, thought Catherine bitterly), she had dragged her victim back into the corridor and confided a parting message at the top of her lungs.

Now wasn’t that luck? Such a nice man for you to know. Macadam and Langtree. Lawyers. Everybody knows them. This one’s the son, quiet, you understand, but such perfect manners. Be nice to him . . . Well, au revoir, dear! Don’t forget to ring me up, and come to my very next At Home.

So saying Mrs. Hugh Tyler Pope careened up the swaying corridor and out of Catherine’s life. Her part was played, nor did Catherine, inwardly cursing her, suspect what an important part it was.

Self-consciously, now, she sank into her seat. To her relief the Englishman had retired behind his magazine, so that she was able to settle herself calmly and collect her scattered thoughts.

To tell the truth, they needed collecting. Various uneasy qualms, hitherto stifled at birth, rose anew to trouble her, growing more insistent with each repetition.

Had she done right to come?

A guilty voice whispered that she had been unwisely precipitate over the whole affair, and might live to regret it.

Yet why? she argued crossly. Germaine certainly wants me with her. There’s no doubt about that.

Yes, Mme. Bender’s letter, for all its characteristic vagueness, had expressed an earnest wish for her company. She would have bothered no more about it if it had not been for this other, rather odd epistle now hidden in her bag, a communication she had shown to no one.

Ah, there she had been wrong, there was no blinking the fact. She ought to have confided in her married sister Barbara and her sober brother-in-law, John. Catherine made her home with these two, and usually asked their advice on matters. Only sometimes, when she foresaw the result, she omitted the formality.

To be frank, she had been feverishly eager to leave Boston behind and with it the irksome associations of an engagement just terminated. She felt she could not walk down Boylston Street or across the Common without encountering a certain injured young man or some member of his family, in bitter league against her. Yes, she had dashed off instantly to secure her passage, and when later this curious missive penned by a complete stranger had arrived, she had kept silent about it for fear of shipwrecking her plans.

Oh well, it was done now, there was no looking back. Besides there was nothing definite on the letter, no fact that one could get hold of, in spite of its emotional tone. Who was the woman, anyhow? Probably some excitable friend of Germaine’s, prone to exaggeration. The hysterical note spoke for itself. Naturally that accident last year had dealt poor Mme. Bender’s nerves a shattering blow, but there could be nothing worse. She would put the whole thing out of her mind. . . .

Why did her vis-à-vis keep stealing those furtive glances in her direction? The covert survey, always quickly withdrawn, disturbed her like the prickings of her own conscience. There was a queer look of interest in his face, the same expression she had noticed a little while ago.

Discreetly she took stock of him. He was of slender build, wiry and muscular, his skin ruddy with health, features unremarkable, and eyes grey and keen, beneath strong bushy brows. His whole appearance had an air of restraint, extending to his clothing, which was well-cut, not too new, and by no detail claimed attention. Altogether he looked a man who would do nothing rash. Like John, she decided. John, too, was a lawyer. No, in a situation like her present one, he would undoubtedly have weighed the pros and cons carefully, and then—she was sure of it!—stayed at home . . .

I beg your pardon?

She started out of her reverie.

Yes?

He coloured in confusion.

Nothing. I fancied you spoke.

No, I was only thinking. Then she added with a little laugh, You didn’t overhear my thoughts, did you?

A glint of humour was her only answer. Still, a thaw had set in, and from now on the glances became more frequent and less furtive. Soon she was sure he had something to say, but that his reticence was fighting against it. Twice he cleared his throat, then at last the question came forth.

I beg your pardon, but did I understand Mrs. Pope to say you are a relation of Mme. Belmont Bender?

He had leaned forward, voice lowered, as though the matter were a private one.

Mr. Bender was my cousin, she replied in surprise. Mme. Bender is French.

Yes. Oh, yes, of course!

Perhaps you know Mme. Bender? she suggested.

I have met her, he said cautiously. Not in a social way. You see, he went on after a pause, my firm—we happen to be solicitors—has had the handling of the Benders’ affairs for a very long time. Your cousin was one of our oldest clients.

Oh! So that’s it!

Catherine’s eyes lit up, transforming her entire appearance miraculously. Her eyes were her most striking feature. Rather sombre in repose, with a brooding melancholy recalling the famous portrait of Beatrice Cenci, they had a trick of flaming up with the rise of any sudden emotion and becoming twin lakes of liquid fire.

That’s extremely interesting, she exclaimed, and bent towards him, flecks of red straining her cheeks. I—I wonder if you’d mind telling me just how she seemed to you when you last saw her? I’d rather like to know.

He was gazing straight into her eyes now, as though fascinated, half against his will, by their molten glory. He took a moment to reply.

It was some time, he answered slowly. Before Mr. Bender’s death, in fact. Few people have seen her recently, and I am told that she’s by way of being a complete— he hesitated, choosing the right word—’invalid. Probably you know more of her than I do.

Her face fell.

I know very little indeed, she said uncertainly. Except for one short note, I’ve had no news for almost a year. . . . You see, I have never known her very well. She and Cousin Harry were seldom in America, and it wasn’t till after the accident, when she was ill in a sanatorium—

Sanatorium? he repeated quickly.

She was injured, you know—a bad concussion.

She thought he looked a trifle embarrassed.

But do you mean to say, he ventured gravely, that her mind was affected?

Certainly not! she retorted with energy. Why do you ask that?

He reddened again.

I’m sorry! In England a sanatorium usually means a home for mental patients.

Oh, I see! With us it’s simply a private hospital.

It was odd, though, his suggesting such a thing. Suppose, after all . . .

I interrupted you. Please go on.

I was only about to say that while Mme. Bender was recovering I used to go and see her every afternoon. She seemed so alone, so helpless and so crushed. You know, she had always depended on Cousin Harry for everything, gone everywhere with him, let him act for her, think for her even. Why, she’s never bothered to learn English properly. There was no need, her husband spoke such beautiful French.

I recall that he did.

She was so overwhelmed by grief and shock that she was utterly incapable of making any plans. She even turned to me for advice, like a little child, perhaps because I could talk French with her, and scarcely anyone else could. She wanted me to go back to Paris with her then, but it wasn’t possible.

There was a far-away look in her eyes as she thought of her broken engagement, rejoicing that the ring she had worn for a year—its stone cut like a piece of rock quartz because her fiancé had thought it bad taste for diamonds to sparkle—was no longer on her finger.

He was watching her closely.

But was Mme. Bender entirely alone in Boston?

Oh, no! There was a maid, a most excellent woman, who had been with her for years and understood her perfectly. Indeed, there were two servants, a man and a woman, who used to travel with the Benders wherever they went—Egypt, Biarritz, Cannes, all those places. The man was a sort of courier-valet, spoke a dozen languages—very efficient . . . I wonder if those same servants are still looking after her? she added, because, poor dear, she had such a horror of strangers!

The servants? Oh, yes, they are still there, he assured her quickly; then in reply to her look of surprised inquiry continued by way of explanation, At least I saw them at her apartment a few months ago. Mme. Bender sent for me on a business matter, but when I arrived she was too ill to see me, so that the maid you mention had to speak to me instead.

Inexplicably Catherine felt that he was withholding some item of importance. Moreover his interest in her had become so pointed that she grew positively ill at ease, and saying no more, resolutely directed her attention to the flying landscape.

They were in the heart of Normandy, which early spring had garnished with rainwashed tints delicate and vague. Through a mist of green, thatched cottages appeared, each with its little rectangle of farmyard, walled in by slender poplars. There was a flash upon the budding hedges, and here and there showed the pink bouquet of a flowering almond.

Catherine feasted her eyes, but her soul was troubled. The letter in her bag suggested anew such alarming possibilities that she was impelled to run through it again, hoping to fathom the writer’s real meaning.

No use. It was a tangled mass of contradictions, framed in extravagant phraseology which left her baffled and irritated. She sat staring at the blue pages as though they contained some strange hieroglyph she had not the wit to decipher.

Minutes passed. The other occupants of the carriage had lapsed into whole or partial somnolence, with the exception of the Englishman, who having donned a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles was frowning sternly at the cover of his magazine.

Suddenly Catherine addressed him.

Do you happen to know anyone in Paris by the name of Cushing—Hermione Cushing? she inquired.

He started violently, the copy of The Bystander sliding to the floor.

Hermione Cushing? he echoed, obviously to gain time.

Their eyes met, and in a flash Catherine realized that there was something in the letter after all.

CHAPTER TWO

During the pause which followed, Catherine had time to reflect that this young man was a lawyer, and as such would be extremely unlikely to part with information. Her brother-in-law belonged to the legal profession. She thought she knew the breed.

Hermione Cushing? he repeated again with a sort of negative inflection. Oh, yes! You mean the singer.

Do I? she demanded bluntly. I didn’t know she was a singer.

The gleam in his eye was altogether human.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she was a singer, he amended. In any case, she’s a country-woman of yours.

You do know her, then?

Very slightly. Every one knows Miss Cushing. She’s a well-known figure in Paris.

That was all. He had shut up like a clam.

Oh dear! fumed Catherine inwardly, he’s going to be tiresome like John! And yet he must know something, or why did he jump like that when I mentioned her name?

There had been no doubt about his confusion. Even now he was watching her warily, as though dreading a direct attack. She decided to lay her cards on the table.

Mr. Macadam, she began, glancing hastily at their comatose companions, just before I sailed I had a queer sort of letter from this Miss Cushing, who tells me she is an old and dear friend of Mme. Bender’s, and a such feels it her duty to warn me about something. Is it true? I mean, is she really my cousin’s friend?

He considered briefly.

Oh, yes. I believe—indeed, I know that she is.

Then there’s nothing wrong about her? Nothing odd?

She fancied his smile was reminiscent.

Nothing, he replied discreetly. Beyond a certain excitability, which one may put down to the artist temperament. Yet even as he spoke she detected a trace of reservation which further mystified her. Why couldn’t he be more open?

Perhaps that explains things. You see, I have been frightfully bothered to know what to make of this. She filtered the pages with hesitation, then suddenly made up her mind. If you won’t think me stupid. I’d like to ask you to read her letter and tell me whether I ought to take what she says seriously or not. You can understand my feeling nervous about it.

She finished the sentence hurriedly, rather ashamed of her boldness; then, as he took the sheets from her and gave them careful attention, she held her breath, studying him anxiously."

Secure behind an expressionless mask, the young solicitor perused the pages to the final flourish. Catherine, watching, could obtain no clue to his thoughts.

You see what she says about the maid believing Mme. Bender to be out of her mind, she put in presently. And about it’s being an undeniable fact that the poor thing is behaving queerly. Does she herself think my cousin is unbalanced, or doesn’t she? That’s what I can’t make out. The very vehemence with which she denies the suggestion makes me wonder if where there’s so much smoke there mayn’t be a little fire? Do you understand what I mean?

Of course, he assented, it puts the idea into one’s head.

That’s precisely it. I never dreamed of such a thing before, and it’s naturally very upsetting.

He folded the pale blue sheets and handed them back to her.

If it’s not impertinent, may I ask if anyone else has seen this?

Catherine blushed.

No, she confessed guiltily. I had made my plans, and frankly I didn’t want to give up the trip. Besides, I had heard from Mme. Bender herself.

Oh, she wrote to you, did she?

Certainly, and her letter seemed perfectly rational. She’s always a little wandering and impractical, you know, but as a matter of fact, on this occasion she was less so than usual. She urged me to come as soon as possible, and told me to send a wire from Havre, so that Eduardo—that’s the manservant—could meet me with the car and see me through the customs.

You are sure she wrote the letter herself?

Catherine stared at him astonished.

Of course! I know her handwriting well. Besides, who else could have written it?

Somehow his manner filled her with apprehension. How she wished he would offer some opinion, or if he had any secret information that he would let her share it!

Besides, she argued, to justify herself, it is not as though Miss Cushing were trying to prevent my coming. It is only that she apparently thinks I ought to be prepared for what to expect. Indeed, she seems most anxious for me not to change my mind. Don’t you get that idea?

Very much so, he agreed. She appears to think she will have a better chance of seeing Mme. Bender if you are there.

Catherine gave a quick nod.

"Evidently she’s had some sort of shindy with the maid, Jeanne. Here—what is it she says?—‘She detests me, cette femme là, and will go to any lengths to prevent my seeing her mistress.’ I wonder what is at the back of that?"

Macadam stood uncomfortably and took out his cigarette case.

Oh, I expect the maid is of a jealous disposition. You know what these old servants are like. Will you smoke?

Oh, thanks! She paused while he held his lighter to her cigarette, then puffing thoughtfully remarked: That probably explains it. But it occurred to me—what if Mme. Bender herself doesn’t want to see Miss Cushing, in which case the maid is merely carrying out her orders?

Oh, perfectly! I see your point.

Indeed, he saw only too clearly. This possibility had impressed him so strongly during his one memorable interview with the lady in question that even now he could not be sure Miss Cushing was not making a nuisance of herself, forcing her attentions where they were not wasted. Various information, all emanating from the singer herself, disposed him to this opinion. He wished now that he had investigated the matter more thoroughly, but in all justice he had done the best he could. . . .

Of course, it is not always easy to tell if a person is insane, he remarked with apparent irrelevance. Often there are completely lucid intervals, so that two observers might easily have different opinions.

That’s what bothers me. I can’t help thinking that this maid, who has known Mme. Bender for so many years and is her constant companion, must be in a better position to judge of her mental state than someone who sees her occasionally. Similarly, if Jeanne objects to admitting Miss Cushing, she is likely to have a good reason for it.

She stopped suddenly, realizing that she was putting into words all the doubts she had been trying not to admit. Perhaps she was driven to do so by her companion’s evasiveness.

Macadam let his gaze dwell upon her sensitive, troubled face. The eyes were pensive now, clouded with doubt, the corners of the mouth drooped a little. It was a fairly wide mouth, generous, and with a look of firm sweetness, which accorded well with the high-bridged, delicately modelled nose. One would not call her pretty, he decided. Pretty was too trivial a word. No, there was a sort of high loveliness about her, showing as much in her expression as in the fine lines of her body. When her eyes ran over with that golden, liquid fire it was as though emotion had suddenly fused something clear and intense in her very soul. It made one think she had a greater capacity for feeling than most of the women one met. Now, because she was looking downcast, he longed to find some way of relieving her anxiety. But how?

At any rate, he said, I don’t see that you need worry. I happen to know that your cousin is under the care of a reputable physician who probably understands her case.

An American?

No—French, I believe.

She’s changed, then. Cousin Harry always had an American doctor. Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right my going to stay there. Anyway, I hope so.

So did he. The truth was he was finding himself quite concerned over the thought that this singularly attractive girl was about to become the sole companion of a woman whose sanity was in grave dispute. She might be letting herself in for something unpleasant. He himself had known at least one case of so-called circular insanity, where the patient after a long period of normal conduct, had veered with startling abruptness into homicidal mania, and ended by inflicting a knife-wound upon a member of his family. Miss Cushing’s account of things, garbled and difficult to follow, rushed into his mind so forcibly that for an instant he opened his lips to utter a guarded warning. Then, simply because he had long been trained in grooves of discretion, he decided that it was no business of his to interfere.

When the train pulled into the Gare St. Lazare dusk was deepening into night. Doors banged open, porters swarmed into the carriages clamouring for hand-luggage, there was a confusing surging exodus of passengers on to the grimy platform.

Catherine felt a thrill of happy excitement. Paris at last! How she had longed to be here, ever since her single brief visit four years ago? The staccato babble filling her cars had an exotic sound, heralding an era of freedom and romance. How stupid of her to upset herself over imagined difficulties? Everything was going so be perfect. . . .

What was Mr. Macadam saying?

Shall you be able to recognize this butler who is coming to meet you?

Eduardo? Oh, certainly! I’d know him anywhere. He’s a sort of mongrel Portuguese, looks as though be ought to have rings in his ears and a knife between his teeth, but quite decent, really. He must be somewhere among the crowd.

While a blue-clad brigand fastened her bags together with a strap and slung them over a nonchalant shoulder, she scanned the platform with an eager eye.

I’ll stay with you, if you don’t mind, till you find him, suggested her companion tentatively.

Oh, thank you, though it’s not at all necessary. He’s sure to be here.

She accepted the hand outstretched to assist her down the awkward step and, looking this way and that, followed her porter’s slouching figure towards the customs enclosure. Humanity jostled her, raucous voices shouted Attention! and more than once she was glad of the protecting pressure on her arm as some heavily laden truck trundled ruthlessly towards her, bent upon destruction.

Somewhere amid this seething mass her cousin’s servant must be searching for her, but although she peered into every masculine face she could descry no one faintly resembling him.

Probably he’s been held up by the traffic. Better let me see you through all this business so as not to waste time.

She turned grateful eyes upon him, her brow faintly furrowed with uncertainty.

It is too good of you! But aren’t you in a hurry to get away?

I’ve nothing to do but go home to dinner, he assured her. Here we are. Your trunk ought to be down near the end of the line.

It was comforting to be looked after; she let him guide her through the chaos. Already upon the long benches trunks lay open, their contents jumbled together under the inspectors’ appraising eyes.

Like the Last Judgment—the graves giving up their secrets! she laughed. I hope they don’t paw my possessions about. I’ve nothing to declare.

It was finished. Certainly Mr. Macadam knew how to get things done with ease and dispatch. Once more, amidst the turbulent scene, her eyes sought expectantly for the familiar, squat figure of the Portuguese, only to meet with disappointment.

Eduardo was not there.

CHAPTER THREE

In the open space taxis honked and porters jostled each other with the peculiarly vicious abandon characteristic of Paris. A few private cars were drawn up, and each of these they examined searchingly, sure that one among then must be Mme. Bender’s. However, in turn they were claimed, and drove away.

You say you sent a telegram? inquired the Englishman.

Certainly, as soon as the boat docked. Of course it may have gone astray.

Possibly. That does, of course, occasionally happen.

She glanced at him with indecision. Twenty minutes had now passed, and there was no sign that anyone was coming to meet her. She could not deny feeling disappointed.

Oh, well, there’s no good hanging about. I’ll just get into a taxi and go along by myself.

He had not noticed in the train how young she looked, and how slender, almost fragile. Standing now against the dingy building with the cold draught whipping her squirrel coat about her silk-clad knees, she seemed to him altogether unfit to be venturing across a strange city unescorted.

He found himself suggesting solicitously:

Perhaps you’ll let me drop you at the apartment? I’d very much like to.

She shook her head quickly.

Oh, no, I shouldn’t dream of it! You’ve been too awfully good as it is.

She was conscious of a warm appreciation, more pronounced then if the offer had come from one of the cheerful, less restrained youths of her acquaintance. She had begun by considering him stiff and severe. Now she was not so sure.

Here’s a taxi. I don’t in the least mind going alone, really. It’s not as if I didn’t speak French.

Her manner brooking no argument, he somewhat reluctantly handed her into the waiting cab and gave directions to the driver. Then, not quite satisfied, he hung on to the sill, looking in at her.

You’re sure you’re all right?

Oh, absolutely! I’m not a baby, you know. I’ve been looking after myself for years,—and she laughed, wrinkling her nose.

It’s this question of your cousin, Mme. Bender. I daresay you’ll find everything as it should be, but if it isn’t—if for any reason you don’t want to stay there—here he floundered a little not sure as to what he wanted to say—well, perhaps you might let me know.

I will, if you like, she agreed readily, though a little astonished.

I’ll give you my telephone number—both my numbers, in fact. The first is the office, the second my home.

He scribbled on a card and handed it to her through the window.

You won’t forget, will you? I shall be rather anxious to hear how you’re getting on.

For an instant his two hands rested on the ledge. She noted that they were unexpectedly large and sinewy for his medium build, and that there were dark brown hairs on the backs. A detached part of her brain reflected that they were utterly unlike the pale smooth hands of Miles Waring, her late affianced—hands which for some inexplicable reason had always roused in her a faint repugnance.

She thanked him with a grateful smile, and the taxi lunged away, leaving him upon the kerb, gazing after it with doubt in his eyes.

Beastly annoying of these people to let a young girl arrive like this with no one to meet her. Nothing in it, of course, but all the same he ought to have told her plainly the things Hermione Cushing had said to him a few weeks ago. As it was, he had let her go to her destination totally unprepared. Well, it was too late now. . . .

Meanwhile, at breakneck speed the taxi hurtled along crowded thoroughfares. Lights twinkled through the violet dusk, cars flashed past, the air was heavy with the distinctive scent of French petrol, so oddly thrilling because of its associations. Intoxicated by the well-remembered odour, by the hurrying people and the gay shop windows, Catherine sat upon the edge of her seat, keyed up with anticipation of all that Paris was going to mean.

Presently she glanced at the card in her hand. Mr. Geoffrey Blair Macadam, she read, with the address in the corner, 99, rue d’Assas. She recalled the rue d’Assas. It was across the river, by the Luxembourg Gardens, a delightful place to live. How thoughtful he had been! She wondered if she was likely to see him again.

With a lightning swerve the taxi rounded a corner, and behold, the Champs-Élysées, broad and darkly glistening like a ballroom floor. Far ahead, in the evening gloom, rose the shadowy Arc of the Étoile, grandly beautiful, the climax to a perfectly planned vista. Beyond it spread the Bois de Boulogne, full of mystery, with its young bare trees, and over the Seine to the left lay the heights of St. Cloud forest. The thought of the myriad slim poplars, pale green even to the mossy stems, pierced her heart with a joy that hurt.

Ah, here was the Avenue Kléber! Two minutes more and she would reach Mme. Bender’s magnificent apartment, where four years ago she had spent a few pleasant days. At the thought sudden stage-fright chilled her exultation. She was quite forgetting the possible state of her hostess, and a qualm of self-reproach assailed her. Still, in spite of last year, she felt almost a stranger to her cousin’s widow, that intangible creature, so extremely difficult to know. One pitied rather than loved her, but that was inevitable. Ardently Catherine hoped that these rumours about her mental condition were exaggerated. Until she had actually seen her she would feel a bit nervous.

She recalled her first, childish impression of Mme. Bender, long years ago. Always there had been something unreal, a clinging, orchidaceous quality, suggesting that she was constitutionally incapable of existing alone. In the positive personality of her American husband she had taken root, but recently, torn from that support and sustenance, her entire character had wilted and sagged, a fact pathetically apparent a year ago. What would she be like now? With age creeping pitilessly upon her, it was hopeless to expect her to build for herself an independent life.

They turned into the Avenue Henri Martin, a spacious street with a double row of chestnuts down the central parkway. The handsome building on the left contained the Benders’ two-floored apartment. There, just round the corner in the side-street, was a private door, through which one might go without passing the concierge’s loge; but naturally now she would use the main entrance.

Queer for that telegram, properly addressed, to go astray. Would her arrival take them by surprise?

The driver descended, unstrapped her trunk, and dumped it unceremoniously within the flagged court. Catherine got out, paid the fare, and started to enter the archway.

Then an incident occurred which in itself meant nothing at all, and which would have been speedily erased from her memory if subsequent happenings had not served to emphasize it. As she crossed the pavement she collided forcibly with a lounger who, idling along, head upturned towards the windows above, had not observed her approach. She recoiled with the impact, straightening her disarranged hat, as a muttered apology met her ears.

Pardon, mademoiselle!

Pas de quoi, monsieur, she replied mechanically, still tingling with the blow, which had all but knocked the breath from her body.

He drew back to let her pass, and to her slight discomfiture favoured her with a long, penetrating stare. How like a Frenchman, she reflected indignantly. She lowered her eyes, but her brief glance had shown her a slight, meagrely-built person, execrably dressed in black, with a wide-brimmed hat upon his head. Above an old-fashioned winged collar with a cravat rose a small, pasty-white face, the skin recalling the unwholesome pallor of a fish-belly, while pale, red-rimmed eyes, one of them marked with a black triangular blemish, gazed forth with so unwinking fixity.

He was still standing there behind her on the pavement when she reached the high glass doors of the concierge’s loge, the official occupant of which came forth to greet her, grudgingly, after the manner of her class. A dried, spare little woman with a nut-cracker countenance and a buck crocheted shawl about her shoulders, she bent on the newcomer a vulture-eyed look of mingled curiosity and suspicion.

Bonsoir, mademoiselle! she accosted Catherine with metallic precision. On desire—?

Madame Bender, announced Catherine briefly.

A quick change came over the hard old features. Eyebrows and shoulders hoisted themselves with one movement, and the sharp eyes narrowed for a closer inspection of the young girl’s face.

Ah! breathed the concierge with an upward, insinuating inflection. Madame Bender! I was not informed that madame was expecting a visitor. However, that is no affair of mine. She made a curt gesture with her gnarled hand, at the same time jerking her head towards the octagonal court beyond the covered way. Montez, mademoiselle. L’ascenseur est à droit.

Catherine thought her manner definitely unpleasant. In some annoyance she motioned to her luggage asking to have it sent up as soon as possible, then turned towards the shallow steps at the right side of the court. She had not gone two paces, however, before the hard voice called out with what sounded like malicious enjoyment:

Mademoiselle has chosen an unfortunate moment for her visit. If she expects madame to receive her in person, she must prepare for a disappointment.

Catherine looked around.

What do you mean? she demanded quickly. Is anything wrong?

There was a second meaning shrug.

"I cannot tell you. I know nothing, I! All I can say is that the doctor was summoned for