Marie Belloc Lowndes - The Chink in the Armour

M >> Marie Belloc Lowndes >> The Chink in the Armour

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But Sylvia made no answer. She did not even look round at him. She was
still staring straight before her, as if she saw something, which the
others could not see, written on the distempered wall.

L'Ami Fritz entered the room quietly. He looked even stranger than usual,
for while in one hand he held Mrs. Bailey's pretty black tulle hat and
her little bag, in the other was clutched the handle of a broom.

"I did not think you would want to go back into my wife's bed-room," he
said, deprecatingly; and Mrs. Bailey, at last turning her head round,
actually smiled gratefully at him.

She was reminding herself that there had been a moment when he had been
willing to let her escape. Only once--only when he had grinned at her so
strangely and deplored her refusal of the drugged coffee, had she felt
the sick, agonising fear of him that she had felt of Madame Wachner.

Laying the hat and bag on the table, L'Ami Fritz began sweeping the floor
with long skilful movements.

"This is the best way to find the pearls," he muttered; and three of the
four people present stood and looked on at what he was doing. As for the
one most concerned, Sylvia had again begun to stare dully before her, as
if what was going on did not interest her one whit.

At last Monsieur Wachner took a long spoon off the table; with its help
he put all that he had swept up--pearls, dust, and fluff--into the little
fancy bag.

"There," he said, with a sigh of relief, "I think they are all there."

But even as he spoke he knew well enough that some of the pearls--perhaps
five or six--had found their way up his wife's capacious sleeve.

And then, quite suddenly, Madame Wachner uttered a hoarse exclamation of
terror. One of the gendarmes had climbed up on to the window-sill, and
was now half into the room. She waddled quickly across to the door, only
to find another gendarme in the hall.

Sylvia's eyes glistened, and a sensation which had hitherto been quite
unknown to her took possession of her, soul and body. She longed for
revenge--revenge, not for herself so much as for her murdered friend. She
clutched Paul by the arm. "They killed Anna Wolsky," she whispered. "She
is lying buried in the wood, where they meant to put me if you had not
come just--only just--in time!"

Paul de Virieu took Sylvia's hat off the dining-room table, and placed it
in her hand, closing her fingers over the brim. With a mechanical gesture
she raised her arms and put it on her head. Then he ceremoniously offered
her his arm, and led her out of the dining-room into the hall.

While actually within the Chalet des Muguets Count Paul only once broke
silence. That was when Madame Wachner, still talking volubly, held out
her hand in farewell to the young Englishwoman.

"I forbid you to touch her!" the Count muttered between his teeth, and
Sylvia, withdrawing her half-outstretched hand, meekly obeyed him.

Paul de Virieu beckoned to the oldest of the police officials present.

"You will remember the disappearance from Lacville of a Polish lady? I
have reason to believe these people murdered her. When once I have placed
Madame Bailey under medical care, I will return here. Meanwhile you, of
course, know what to do."

"But M'sieur, ought I not to detain this English lady?"

"Certainly not. I make myself responsible for her. She is in no state to
bear an interrogation. Lock up these people in separate rooms. I will
send you reinforcements, and to-morrow morning _dig up the little wood
behind the house_."

Behind them came the gruff and the shrill tones of L'Ami Fritz and his
wife raised in indignant expostulation.

"Are you coming, Sylvia?" called out Chester impatiently.

He had gone on into the garden, unwilling to assume any responsibility as
to the police. After all, there was no _evidence_, not what English law
would recognise as evidence, against these people.

Out in the darkness, with the two men, one on either side of her, Sylvia
walked slowly to the gate. Between them they got her over it and into the
victoria.

Paul de Virieu pulled out the little back seat, but Chester, taking quick
possession of it, motioned him to sit by Mrs. Bailey.

"To Paris, Hotel du Louvre," the Count called out to the driver. "You can
take as long as you like over the journey!"

Then he bent forward to Chester, "The air will do her good," he murmured.

By his side, huddled up in a corner of the carriage, Sylvia lay back
inertly; but her eyes were wide open, and she was staring hungrily at the
sky, at the stars. She had never thought to see the sky and the stars
again.

They were now moving very slowly, almost at a foot's pace.

The driver was accustomed to people who suddenly decided to drive all the
way back to Paris from Lacville after an evening's successful or, for the
matter of that, unsuccessful play. He had been very much relieved to see
his two gentlemen come back from the chalet and to leave the gendarmes
behind. He had no wish to get mixed up in a _fracas_, no wish, that is,
to have any embarrassments with the police.

They drove on and on, into the open country; through dimly-lit, leafy
thoroughfares, through long stretches of market gardens, till they came
on to the outskirts of the great city--and still Sylvia remained
obstinately silent.

Paul de Virieu leant forward.

"Speak to her," he said in an urgent whisper. "Take her hand and try to
rouse her, Mr. Chester. I feel very anxious about her condition."

Chester in the darkness felt himself flushing. With a diffident, awkward
gesture he took Sylvia's hand in his--and then he uttered an exclamation
of surprise and concern.

The hand he held was quite cold--cold and nerveless to the touch, as
if all that constitutes life had gone out of it. "My dear girl!" he
exclaimed. "I'm afraid those people frightened you badly? I suppose you
began to suspect they meant to steal your pearls?"

But Sylvia still remained obstinately silent. She did not want to speak,
she only wanted to live.

It was so strange to feel oneself alive--alive and whole at a time when
one had thought to be dead, having been done to death after an awful,
disfiguring struggle--for Sylvia had determined to struggle to the end
with her murderers.

"My God!" muttered Paul de Virieu. "Do you not understand, Chester, what
happened to-night? They meant to kill her!"

"To kill her?" repeated Chester incredulously.

Then there came over him a rush and glow of angry excitement. Good God!
If that was the case they ought to have driven back at once to the
Lacville police-station!

"Sylvia!" he exclaimed. "Rouse yourself, and tell us what took place! If
what the Count says is true, something must be done, and at once!"

He turned to Paul de Virieu: "The police ought to take Mrs. Bailey's full
statement of all that occurred without any loss of time!" All the lawyer
in him spoke angrily, agitatedly.

Sylvia moved slightly. Paul de Virieu could feel her shuddering by his
side.

"Oh, Bill, let me try to forget!" she moaned. And then, lifting up her
voice, she wailed, "They killed Anna Wolsky--"

Her voice broke, and she began to sob convulsively. "I would not think of
her--I forced myself not to think of her--but now I shall never, never
think of anyone else any more!"

Paul de Virieu turned in the kindly darkness, and putting his arm round
Sylvia's slender shoulders, he tenderly drew her to him.

A passion of pity, of protective tenderness, filled his heart, and
suddenly lifted him to a higher region than that in which he had hitherto
been content to dwell.

"You must not say that, _ma cherie_," he whispered, laying his cheek to
hers as tenderly as he would have caressed a child, "it would be too
cruel to the living, to those who love you--who adore you."

Then he raised his head, and, in a very different tone, he exclaimed,

"Do not be afraid, Mr. Chester, those infamous people shall not be
allowed to escape! Poor Madame Wolsky shall surely be avenged. But Mrs.
Bailey will not be asked to make any statement, except in writing--in
what you in England call an affidavit. You do not realise, although you
doubtless know, what our legal procedure is like. Not even in order to
secure the guillotine for Madame Wachner and her Fritz would I expose
Mrs. Bailey to the ordeal of our French witness-box."

"And how will it be possible to avoid it?" asked Chester, in a low voice.

Paul de Virieu hesitated, then, leaning forward and holding Sylvia still
more closely and protectively to him, he said very deliberately the
fateful words he had never thought to say,

"I have an announcement to make to you, Mr. Chester. It is one which I
trust will bring me your true congratulations. Mrs. Bailey is about to do
me the honour of becoming my wife."

He waited a moment, then added very gravely, "I am giving her an
undertaking, a solemn promise by all I hold most sacred, to abandon
play--"

Chester felt a shock of amazement. How utterly mistaken, how blind he had
been! He had felt positively certain that Sylvia had refused Paul de
Virieu; and he had been angered by the suspicion, nay, by what he had
thought the sure knowledge, that the wise refusal had cost her pain.

But women are extraordinary creatures, and so, for the matter of that,
are Frenchmen--

Still, his feelings to the man sitting opposite to him had undergone a
complete change. He now liked--nay, he now respected--Paul de Virieu. But
for the Count, whom he had thought to be nothing more than an effeminate
dandy, a hopeless gambler, where would Sylvia be now? The unspoken answer
to this question gave Chester a horrible inward tremor.

He leant forward, and grasped Paul de Virieu's left hand.

"I do congratulate you," he said, simply and heartily; "you deserve your
great good fortune." Then, to Sylvia, he added quietly, "My dear, it is
to him you owe your life."

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