"I beg monsieur to believe that if there is anything--"
Monte waved the man aside, went to the telephone, and rang up the Hotel d"Angleterre.
"I wish to know if a Madame Covington has recently arrived."
"Non, monsieur," was the response.
"Look here," said Monte sharply. "Make sure of that. She must have reached there within fifteen minutes."
"We have had no arrivals here within that time except a Mademoiselle Stockton and her maid."
"Eh?" snapped Monte. "Repeat that again."
"Mademoiselle Stockton," the clerk obeyed.
"She signed the register with that name?"
"But yes. If monsieur--"
"All right; thanks."
"You found her?" inquired Henri solicitously.
"Yes," nodded Monte, and went out into the night again.
There was nothing he could do--absolutely nothing. She had given her orders, and they must be obeyed. He returned to the Quai Ma.s.sena, to the sh.o.r.e of the sea; but he walked nervously now, in a world that, as far as he was concerned, was starless and colorless. He had thought at first, naturally enough, that Hamilton was in some way concerned; but he dismissed that now as wholly unplausible. Instead of running away, in that case, she would have sent for him. It was decidedly more likely that this was some strange whimsy springing from within herself.
In looking back at the last few days, he recalled now that upon several occasions she had acted in a way not quite like herself. Last night, for instance, she had been disturbed. Again, it was most unusual for her not to dine with him. He had accepted her excuse that she was tired; but now he blamed himself for not having seen through so artificial an excuse, for not having detected that something else was troubling her.
She had run away as if in fear. She had not dared even to talk over with him the cause for her uneasiness. And he--blind fool that he was--had not detected anything unusual. He had gone off mooning, leaving her to fight her own fight. He had been so confoundedly self-satisfied and content because she was here with him, where heretofore he had always been alone, that he had gone stony blind to her comfort. That was the crude fact.
However, accusing himself did not bring him any nearer an explanation of her strange conduct. She would not have left him unless she had felt herself in some danger. If Hamilton were eliminated, who then remained by whom she could feel menaced? Clearly it must be himself.
The conclusion was like a blow in the face. It stunned him for a moment, and then left his cheeks burning. If she had scuttled away from him like a frightened rabbit, it could be for only one reason; because he had not been able to conceal the truth. And he had thought that he had succeeded in keeping the danger to himself.
He turned in the direction of the Hotel d"Angleterre. He did not intend to try to see her. He wished only to be a little nearer.
Surely there was no harm in that. The boulevard had become deserted, and he was terribly lonesome out here alone. The old black dog that had pounced upon him in Paris came back and hugged him closer.
He squared his shoulders. He must shake himself free of that. The thing to keep in mind was that he did not count in this affair. She alone must be considered. If he had frightened her, he must find some way of rea.s.suring her. He must take a tighter grip than ever upon himself, face her to-morrow, and laugh away her fears. He must do that, because he must justify her faith in him. That was all he had of her--her faith in him. If he killed that, then she would vanish utterly.
After this last week, to be here or anywhere else without her was unthinkable. He must make her believe that he took even this new development lightly. He must go to her in the morning as just Monte.
So, if he were very, very careful, he might coax her back a little way into his life. That was not very much to hope for.
Monte was all wrong. From beginning to end, he was wrong. Marjory had run away, not from him, but from some one else. When she left the hotel she had been on her way to join monsieur, as Henri had correctly surmised. From her window she had been watching him for the matter of half an hour as he paced up and down the quay before the hotel. Every time Monte disappeared from sight at the end of a lap, she held her breath until he appeared again. Every time he appeared again, her heart beat faster. He seemed such a lonely figure that her conscience troubled her. He was so good, was Monte--so good and four-square.
She had left him to dine alone, and without a protest he had submitted.
That was like him; and yet, if he had only as much as looked his disappointment, she would have dressed and come down. She had been ready to do so. It was only the initial excitement that prompted her at first to shut herself up. Coming to this hotel, where for ten years he had been coming alone, was almost like going back into his life for that length of time. Then, Monte had signed the register "Monsieur and Madame Covington." With bated breath she had watched him do it.
After that the roses in her room and the attention of every one to her as to a bride--all those things had frightened her at first. Yet she knew they were bowing low, not to her, but to Madame Covington. This was what made her ears burn. This was what made her seek the seclusion of her room. She felt like an imposter, claiming honors that did not belong to her. It made her so uncomfortable that she could not face even Marie. She sent her off.
Sitting by the open window, she watched Monte as he walked alone, with a queer little ache in her heart. How faithfully he had lived up to his bargain! He had given her every t.i.ttle of the freedom she had craved. In all things he had sought her wishes, asking nothing for himself. It was she who gave the order for starting every morning, for stopping at night. She chose this inn or that, as pleased her fancy.
She talked when she wished to talk, and remained silent when she preferred. If, instead of coming to Nice and etois, she had expressed a desire to turn in some other direction, she knew he would merely have nodded.
It was all one to him. East, west, north, or south--what was the odds?
Married or single--what was the odds?
So she also should have felt. With this big man by her side to guard her and do her will, she should have been able to abandon herself utterly to the delights of each pa.s.sing hour--to the magic of the fairy kingdom he had made for her. It was all she had asked for, and that much it was her right to accept, if he chose to give it. She was cheating no one. Monte himself would have been the first to admit that. Therefore she should have been quite at peace with herself.
The fact remained, however, that each day since they had left Paris she had found herself more and more at the mercy of strange moods; sometimes an unusual and inexplicable exhilaration, such as that moment last night when Monte had turned and seized her arm; sometimes an unnatural depression, like that which now oppressed her. These had been only intervals, to be sure. The hours between had been all she had looked forward to--warm, basking hours of lazy content.
To-night she had been longer than ever before in recovering her balance. She had expected to undress, go to bed, and so to sleep.
Perhaps it was the sight of Monte pacing up and down there alone that prolonged her mood. Yet, not to see him, all that was necessary was to close her eyes or to turn the other way. It should have been easy to do this. Only it was not. She followed him back and forth. In some ways, a bride could not have acted more absurdly.
At the thought she withdrew from the window in startled confusion.
Standing in the middle of the room, she stared about as if challenged as to her right there by some unseen visitor. This would never do.
She was too much alone. She must go to Monte. He would set her right, because he understood. She would take his arm, his strong, steady arm, and walk a little way with him and laugh with him. That was what she needed.
She hurried into her clothes, struggling nervously with hooks and b.u.t.tons as if there were need of haste. Then, throwing a light shawl over her shoulders, she went out past Henri, on her way to Monte.
Monte had been all wrong in his guesses. She had actually been running toward him instead of away from him when, just outside the hotel, she almost collided with Peter Noyes and his sister.
Peter Noyes did not see her at first. His eyes were covered with a green shade, even out here in the night. But his sister Beatrice gave an exclamation that brought him to attention and made him fumble at the shade as if to tear it off. Yet she had spoken but one word:--
"Marjory!"
She whose name had been called shrank back as if hoping the dark would hide her.
"Marjory!" cried Peter Noyes.
Beatrice rushed forward, seizing both the girl"s hands.
"It is you," she exclaimed, as if Marjory sought to deny the fact.
"Peter--Peter, it"s Marjory Stockton!"
Peter stepped forward, his hand outstretched hesitatingly, as one who cannot see. Marjory took the hand, staring with questioning eyes at Beatrice.
"He worked too hard," explained the latter. "This is the price he paid."
"Oh, I"m sorry, Peter!" she cried.
He tried to smile.
"It"s at moments like this I mind it," he answered. "I--I thought you were in Paris, Marjory."
"I came here to-day."
She spoke nervously.