"The King! Why should he be taken with such great antagonism toward you?"

"Because he was first taken with great affection toward me. Is that not always the way of the world; time turns what is good to bad?"

"Not always." G.o.dfrey frowned handsomely. "That is a sober philosophy, Miss Adler. Perhaps your outlook is curdled at the moment." He glanced at the closed photograph case. "As to securing that, I could consign it to some bank safe-"

"No! I must have instant access to it."

"-I was about to say that a safe would be unsatisfactory. For now, you keep it with you?"

"Always."

"Let me think upon it. What are your other needs?"

"I am undecided as to how I may proceed now that I am in London. I would like more permanent lodgings."

"And you feel that you cannot go back to Saffron Hill without betraying yourself?"

"Yes."

"New lodgings would not necessarily attract attention if they were discreetly procured. You have means?"

Irene nodded. "A great plenty, for now."

"Essentially, then, you need to resettle in London, regain your lost clothing, move your possessions still kept at the Saffron Hill address and secure your valuable... charge."

"Precisely"

'Then leave it all to me, save the photograph." He stood to see us out.

Irene stopped as if struck. "Photograph? It could be a jewel case."

"Elementary, my dear Miss Adler-the size and style of case, the fact that the item could discomfit a friend turned enemy. It must be irrefutable evidence of something the King of Bohemia would wish forgotten. Monsieur Daguerre unleashed a mighty weapon when he invented the photographic plate."

She nodded and clutched her homely handbag close as we left. I looked back at G.o.dfrey. He was smiling, his barrister's eyes alight with speculation and his aquiline nose almost visibly twitching at the alluring scent of a mystery.

It struck me that Irene was in no state to notice that G.o.dfrey Norton was as formidable in his way as the King of Bohemia.

Chapter Twenty-six.

A BARRISTER BEARING GIFTS.

Within a week G.o.dfrey called at our Chelsea rooms.

Irene had been lounging on the chaise when he arrived. She did not rise to greet him but remained reclining, rather like a queen who awaits a favored subject.

G.o.dfrey was all brusque energy and information. He ignored Irene's languor and paced, rubbing his hands together, as he brought us up to date.

"I have inquired into the matter of your trunks, Miss Adler, by writing to a Paris a.s.sociate who will contact your friend discreetly. I have no reply as yet, trusting as I am to the post rather than the more efficient cable. Cable would be speedier, but would, of course, leave a trail. I expect a return letter within the week."

Irene nodded regally.

"In the meantime, I have made progress in London. I have leased a house-a two-story villa in St. John's Wood with a charming garden at the back. The rooms are commodious and well furnished. There is a carriage house. I have taken the liberty of engaging a cook-housekeeper, a maid and a driver, given the place's rural locale."

"St. John's Wood?" Irene said, frowning.

"North of Regent's Park," G.o.dfrey explained. "Off the Edgware Road. An area a bit Bohemian, if you will pardon the expression, but well-to-do. It is rural enough to escape the attention of anyone bent on scouring London for your whereabouts. In fact, I should like to show you both the property tonight, if you have no objection."

"Such efficiency," Irene commented languidly, extending a hand so that he could help her rise. "You quite wear me out, Mr. Norton."

G.o.dfrey smiled and bowed to kiss her wrist, a gallantry that surprised me. But as we gathered our coats to leave, he favored me with a wink.

Our new coachman, John Jewett, drove the party. He was a hearty man of middle years with a nicely protective air toward his female pa.s.sengers. I confess myself excited beyond the stimulation of a change of permanent address, my first in six years. I sensed a tension in the air, more in Irene's aspect than G.o.dfrey's. She was quiet, her normally incisive eyes heavy-lidded as she expressed a dangerous spiritual ennui alien to the Irene I knew. She reminded me of certain photographs of Sarah Bernhardt, resembling a gorgeous, coiled lazy serpent waiting for the right moment to slough off inactivity and strike.

The villa in St. John's Wood looked promising by night. Lights warmed the long, ground-floor windows that reached the floor in the Italian style. The coachman waited while we disembarked to view the property.

"It is called Briony Lodge," G.o.dfrey said.

"What a lovely name!" said I at once.

Irene remained silent as G.o.dfrey escorted us within. The place was as advertised: s.p.a.cious and well appointed. As we examined the rooms both up and down, I saw that G.o.dfrey had already imported our furnishings from Saffron Hill. I gasped to see the "Jersey Lily" standing guard in the upper hall. To all this care, Irene responded with the barrister's noncommittal hmm.

The kitchen below-stairs was clean and well-equipped. The cook had retired for the night, but we were a.s.sured that she was adept. G.o.dfrey at last brought us 'round again to the handsome sitting room. He went to the tall windows from which we had seen the gaslight pouring, drawing the blinds in turn with a dramatic flourish.

"And lastly, ladies, I present a feature that most recommends this particular property." He moved to the fireplace wall, where a tapestry bell-pull hung.

"I have seen a bell-pull before, Mr. Norton," Irene noted sardonically, "although I have never before personally possessed such a luxury."

He said nothing, but pressed the painted paneling just beside it. A recessed panel sprang back with a snap. Beyond it lay a dark compartment large enough to accommodate the cabinet photograph.

I clapped my hands in delight.

"Bravo, Mr. Norton," Irene murmured, moving to inspect the s.p.a.ce. 'The villa came with this hidey-hole?"

"Indeed not. I had it put in myself."

"Oh?"

G.o.dfrey regarded her expressionless face with amus.e.m.e.nt. "The carpenters were brought here blindfolded, by carriage, and so returned. They saw only this room and were driven from Greenwich to Battersea both coming and going to confuse their sense of direction. This nook is our secret, we three."

"What of the coachman who drove them?" Irene demanded.

G.o.dfrey a.s.sumed a look I could only describe as belonging on a choir boy at Westminster.

"There was no coachman. I drove them myself."

Irene lowered her eyes. Otherwise she moved not a muscle. I realized that the entire situation rested on her approval.

At last she lifted her head, and her hand, as in one motion. She was mistress of exquisite gestures. The limpid flex of her wrist reminded me of the languid power of the Deity's hand reaching toward Adam on the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Irene held this artistically presented hand at shoulder level, as a queen extending a favor. Her lips lifted like the Mona Lisa's.

G.o.dfrey hesitated a moment; he respected women, but tribute was not his coinage. Then he took Irene's hand, swiftly turned it and brushed his lips across the inside of her wrist.

I couldn't help wondering how she avoided giggling at the tickle of his mustache, but Irene looked quite sober and more than a bit taken aback. She turned to regard the hidden compartment, giving us both her back.

"Well done, Mr. Norton," Irene murmured as she gazed into the empty s.p.a.ce. "Very well done indeed."

"Everything?" he inquired.

She half-turned to face him, her profile tilted up to his. "Everything." Neither moved nor spoke for a long moment.

I stood frozen like the audience at the climax of a play. Then the moment was gone and G.o.dfrey and Irene were turning to me. It was all I could do to resist applauding.

"My dear Nell," G.o.dfrey said, as if noticing me again. A broad smile stretched his dark mustache into a thinner black line. "I have quite forgotten a special surprise for you."

"Oh, really! Indeed, I do not require any special surprises," I said modestly, thrilled nevertheless.

He led me into the dining room, Irene following. In a dark corner of the chamber he paused and, whisking a garishly figured cloth aside, revealed the bra.s.s cage of Casanova.

"Ex Why-Zed," the parrot caroled.

I glanced to G.o.dfrey, who was grinning and tilting his dark head at the same angle as Casanova's scarlet and yellow poll. "You had started him on his A-B-Cs when you left, my fine Nell. Casanova is a reprobate and difficult to teach, so I brought him directly from J-K-L to X-Y-Z. At least he goes from A to Z now."

"Cut the cackle!" Casanova screeched.

Someone was laughing. It was Irene and it ill became her.

"Really, G.o.dfrey," said I, "you need not have relinquished the bird so soon. No doubt he would have learned much under your tutelage."

"Fleurs du mal, fleurs du mal," the feathered fiend hooted.

"Baudelaire! Mr. Norton, you didn't!" Irene was openly shrieking in laughter behind me. "Not Nell's bird! Baudelaire!"

"It's not my bird," I a.s.serted. "And I barely speak French, so your hilarity is lost upon me." They were both laughing uproariously, G.o.dfrey collapsing against the wall, Irene covering her mouth with both hands, tears streaming from her eyes. "Furthermore, Irene, I wonder how you shall welcome this beast's vocalizations when you must overhear them daily."

"Are you finished, Mr. Norton?" she inquired at last.

"Not quite. If I may be excused?"

She nodded curiously as he left the room and then the house.

"Casanova aside," I confided, "I like the situation."

"Yes." Irene moved to the cage. "What a vulgar creature; he is dyed all the colors of the rainbow."

"I believe that G.o.dfrey has done well," I persisted.

"Oh, G.o.dfrey has done excellently, though he takes a great deal upon himself. Such perfection quite chills my blood."

"Perhaps you are not accustomed to it, save in yourself," said I.

G.o.dfrey's hasty steps sounded in the hall. We rushed out. G.o.dfrey carried some burden in his arms like a baby.

"There's a small parlor to the right," he said, dashing into this last unseen room.

Irene and I followed to see him deposit his burden on a table with a thump. It was his father's chest. Irene was drawn to it, running her hands over the wood as if to shape its contents as well as its exterior.

"Another of your erstwhile belongings," G.o.dfrey said.

"I ceded it to you," she reminded him.

"I ceded it back, as I do Nell's blasted parrot. I have not been able to make head nor tail of its contents. Perhaps you would care to try again...?"

Irene spun away from the chest, from his persuasive voice. Only one kerosene lamp lit the room, casting more shadow than light. She moved toward the ill-lit bay window, pausing beside a huge, crouching silhouette of furniture. The flickering lamplight picked out the cabbage-rose pattern of a shawl.

Irene's hand suddenly swept away the shawl, the fringe shivering in light and shadow, to unveil another surprise. A grand piano squatted in the bay.

"This came with the furnishings?" she asked stiffly.

I remembered the throat-soothing potions she had left behind in Bohemia and considered that no elixir could smooth the emotion that roughened her question.

"It goes with the house," G.o.dfrey said, quite firmly.

"I see." Irene was silent for a long while. "Lock up the place, then, and take us home. I am tired."

So we returned to Chelsea, both of us eager to quit our impersonal rooms there, yet each dreading to confront the special gifts that G.o.dfrey had brought to our new quarters.

"We can keep the cover over the parrot," Irene said that evening, brushing her radiant hair.

"And can we keep the piano shawl over the keys, as well?" I asked.

"You and G.o.dfrey Norton! You rush in where angels fear to tread."

"Then we will be at home in heaven," said I, and doused the light.

"More logically and likely in h.e.l.l," she predicted from the dark.

Chapter Twenty-seven.