'You're simply wonderful tonight,' he said. 'I'm almost afraid of my good fortune.'

'What is there to be afraid of?' she cried.

'I should like to lose something I valued in order to propitiate the fates. I am too happy now. Everything goes too well with me.'

She gave a soft, low laugh and stretched out her hand on the table. No sculptor could have modelled its exquisite delicacy. She wore only one ring, a large emerald which Arthur had given her on their engagement. He could not resist taking her hand.

'Would you like to go on anywhere?' he said, when they had finished dinner and were drinking their coffee.

'No, let us stay here. I must go to bed early, as I have a tiring day before me tomorrow.'

'What are you going to do?' he asked.

'Nothing of any importance,' she laughed.

Presently the diners began to go in little groups, and Margaret suggested that they should saunter towards the Madeleine. The night was fine, but rather cold, and the broad avenue was crowded. Margaret watched the people. It was no less amusing than a play. In a little while, they took a cab and drove through the streets, silent already, that led to the quarter of the Montparna.s.se. They sat in silence, and Margaret nestled close to Arthur. He put his arm around her waist. In the shut cab that faint, oriental odour rose again to his nostrils, and his head reeled as it had before dinner.

'You've made me very happy, Margaret,' he whispered. 'I feel that, however long I live, I shall never have a happier day than this.'

'Do you love me very much?' she asked, lightly.

He did not answer, but took her face in his hands and kissed her pa.s.sionately. They arrived at Margaret's house, and she tripped up to the door. She held out her hand to him, smiling.

'Goodnight.'

'It's dreadful to think that I must spend a dozen hours without seeing you. When may I come?'

'Not in the morning, because I shall be too busy. Come at twelve.'

She remembered that her train started exactly at that hour. The door was opened, and with a little wave of the hand she disappeared.

10

Susie stared without comprehension at the note that announced Margaret's marriage. It was a _pet.i.t bleu_ sent off from the Gare du Nord, and ran as follows:

When you receive this I shall be on my way to London. I was married to Oliver Haddo this morning. I love him as I never loved Arthur. I have acted in this manner because I thought I had gone too far with Arthur to make an explanation possible. Please tell him.

MARGARET

Susie was filled with dismay. She did not know what to do nor what to think. There was a knock at the door, and she knew it must be Arthur, for he was expected at midday. She decided quickly that it was impossible to break the news to him then and there. It was needful first to find out all manner of things, and besides, it was incredible. Making up her mind, she opened the door.

'Oh, I'm so sorry Margaret isn't here,' she said. 'A friend of hers is ill and sent for her suddenly.'

'What a bore!' answered Arthur. 'Mrs Bloomfield as usual, I suppose?'

'Oh, you know she's been ill?'

'Margaret has spent nearly every afternoon with her for some days.'

Susie did not answer. This was the first she had heard of Mrs Bloomfield's illness, and it was news that Margaret was in the habit of visiting her. But her chief object at this moment was to get rid of Arthur.

'Won't you come back at five o'clock?' she said.

'But, look here, why shouldn't we lunch together, you and I?'

'I'm very sorry, but I'm expecting somebody in.'

'Oh, all right. Then I'll come back at five.'

He nodded and went out. Susie read the brief note once more, and asked herself if it could possibly be true. The callousness of it was appalling. She went to Margaret's room and saw that everything was in its place. It did not look as if the owner had gone on a journey. But then she noticed that a number of letters had been destroyed. She opened a drawer and found that Margaret's trinkets were gone. An idea struck her. Margaret had bought lately a number of clothes, and these she had insisted should be sent to her dressmaker, saying that it was needless to c.u.mber their little apartment with them. They could stay there till she returned to England a few weeks later for her marriage, and it would be simpler to despatch them all from one place. Susie went out. At the door it occurred to her to ask the _concierge_ if she knew where Margaret had gone that morning.

'_Parfaitement, Mademoiselle_,' answered the old woman. 'I heard her tell the coachman to go to the British Consulate.'

The last doubt was leaving Susie. She went to the dressmaker and there discovered that by Margaret's order the boxes containing her things had gone on the previous day to the luggage office of the Gare du Nord.

'I hope you didn't let them go till your bill was paid,' said Susie lightly, as though in jest.

The dressmaker laughed.

'Mademoiselle paid for everything two or three days ago.'

With indignation, Susie realised that Margaret had not only taken away the trousseau bought for her marriage with Arthur; but, since she was herself penniless, had paid for it with the money which he had generously given her. Susie drove then to Mrs Bloomfield, who at once reproached her for not coming to see her.

'I'm sorry, but I've been exceedingly busy, and I knew that Margaret was looking after you.'

'I've not seen Margaret for three weeks,' said the invalid.

'Haven't you? I thought she dropped in quite often.'

Susie spoke as though the matter were of no importance. She asked herself now where Margaret could have spent those afternoons. By a great effort she forced herself to speak of casual things with the garrulous old lady long enough to make her visit seem natural. On leaving her, she went to the Consulate, and her last doubt was dissipated. Then nothing remained but to go home and wait for Arthur. Her first impulse had been to see Dr Porhoet and ask for his advice; but, even if he offered to come back with her to the studio, his presence would be useless. She must see Arthur by himself. Her heart was wrung as she thought of the man's agony when he knew the truth. She had confessed to herself long before that she loved him pa.s.sionately, and it seemed intolerable that she of all persons must bear him this great blow.

She sat in the studio, counting the minutes, and thought with a bitter smile that his eagerness to see Margaret would make him punctual. She had eaten nothing since the _pet.i.t dejeuner_ of the morning, and she was faint with hunger. But she had not the heart to make herself tea. At last he came. He entered joyfully and looked around.

'Is Margaret not here yet?' he asked, with surprise.

'Won't you sit down?'

He did not notice that her voice was strange, nor that she kept her eyes averted.

'How lazy you are,' he cried. 'You haven't got the tea.'

'Mr Burdon, I have something to say to you. It will cause you very great pain.'

He observed now the hoa.r.s.eness of her tone. He sprang to his feet, and a thousand fancies flashed across his brain. Something horrible had happened to Margaret. She was ill. His terror was so great that he could not speak. He put out his hands as does a blind man. Susie had to make an effort to go on. But she could not. Her voice was choked, and she began to cry. Arthur trembled as though he were seized with ague. She gave him the letter.