what’s that but brotherhood between men and sisterhood between women?’
He paused earnestly. Mr Satterthwaite tried to think of any circumstances in which a sisterly feeling might arise between the Countess and Elizabeth Martin and failed.
‘Now the Countess, on the other hand,’ went on Rudge, ‘admires Elizabeth immensely, and thinks her charming in every way. Now what does that show?’
‘It shows,’ said Mr Satterthwaite dryly, ‘that the Countess has lived a considerable time longer than Miss Martin has.’
Franklin Rudge went off unexpectedly at a tangent.
‘Do you know how old she is? She told me. Rather sporting of her. I should have guessed her to be twenty-nine, but she told me of her own accord that she was thirty-five. She doesn’t look it, does she?’ Mr Satterthwaite, whose private estimate of the lady’s age was between forty-five and forty-nine, merely raised his eyebrows.
‘I should caution you against believing all you are told at Monte Carlo,’ he murmured.
He had enough experience to know the futility of arguing with the lad. Franklin Rudge was at a pitch of white hot chivalry when he would have disbelieved any statement that was not backed with authoritative proof.
‘Here is the Countess,’ said the boy, rising.
She came up to them with the languid grace that so became her. Presently they all three sat down together. She was very charming to Mr Satterthwaite, but in rather an aloof manner. She deferred to him prettily, asking his opinion, and treating him as an authority on the Riviera.
The whole thing was cleverly managed. Very few minutes had elapsed before Franklin Rudge found himself gracefully but unmistakably dismissed, and the Countess and Mr Satterthwaite were left tête-à-tête.
She put down her parasol and began drawing patterns with it in the dust.
‘You are interested in the nice American boy, Mr Satterthwaite, are you not?’
Her voice was low with a caressing note in it.
‘He’s a nice young fellow,’ said Mr Satterthwaite, noncommittally.
‘I find him sympathetic, yes,’ said the Countess reflectively. ‘I have told him much of my life.’
‘Indeed,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘Details such as I have told to few others,’ she continued dreamily. ‘I have had an extraordinary life, Mr Satterthwaite. Few would credit the amazing things that have happened to me.’
Mr Satterthwaite was shrewd enough to penetrate her meaning. After all, the stories that she had told to Franklin Rudge might be the truth. It was extremely unlikely, and in the last degree improbable, but it was possible … No one could definitely say: ‘That is not so –’
He did not reply, and the Countess continued to look out dreamily across the bay.
And suddenly Mr Satterthwaite had a strange and new impression of her. He saw her no longer as a harpy, but as a desperate creature at bay, fighting tooth and nail. He stole a sideways glance at her. The parasol was down, he could see the little haggard lines at the corners of her eyes. In one temple a pulse was beating.
It flowed through him again and again – that increasing certitude. She was a creature desperate and driven. She would be merciless to him or to anyone who stood between her and Franklin Rudge. But he still felt he hadn’t got the hang of the situation. Clearly she had plenty of money. She was always beautifully dressed, and her jewels were marvellous. There could be no real urgency of that kind. Was it love? Women of her age did, he well knew, fall in love with boys. It might be that. There was, he felt sure, something out of the common about the situation.
Her tête-à-tête with him was, he recognized, a throwing down of the gauntlet. She had singled him out as her chief enemy. He felt sure that she hoped to goad him into speaking slightingly of her to Franklin Rudge. Mr Satterthwaite smiled to himself. He was too old a bird for that. He knew when it was wise to hold one’s tongue.
He watched her that night in the Cercle Privé, as she tried her fortunes at roulette.
Again and again she staked, only to see her stake swept away. She bore her losses well, with the stoical sang froid of the old habitué. She staked en plein once or twice, put the maximum on red, won a little on the middle dozen and then lost it again, finally she backed manque six times and lost every time. Then with a little graceful shrug of the shoulders she turned away.
She was looking unusually striking in a dress of gold tissue with an underlying note of green. The famous Bosnian pearls were looped round her neck and long pearl ear-rings hung from her ears.
Mr Satterthwaite heard two men near him appraise her.
‘The Czarnova,’ said one, ‘she wears well, does she not? The Crown jewels of Bosnia look fine on her.’
The other, a small Jewish-looking man, stared curiously after her.
‘So those are the pearls of Bosnia, are they?’ he asked. ‘En vérité. That is odd.’
He chuckled softly to himself.
Mr Satterthwaite missed hearing more, for at the moment he turned his head and was overjoyed to recognize an old friend.
‘My dear Mr Quin.’ He shook him warmly by the hand. ‘The last place I should ever have dreamed of seeing you.’
Mr Quin smiled, his dark attractive face lighting up.
‘It should not surprise you,’ he said. ‘It is Carnival time. I am often here in Carnival time.’
‘Really? Well, this is a great pleasure. Are you anxious to remain in the rooms? I find them rather warm.’
‘It will be pleasanter outside,’ agreed the other. ‘We will walk in the gardens.’
The air outside was sharp, but not chill. Both men drew deep breaths.
‘That is better,’ said Mr Satterthwaite.
‘Much better,’ agreed Mr Quin. ‘And we can talk freely. I am sure that there is much that you want to tell me.’
‘There is indeed.’
Speaking eagerly, Mr Satterthwaite unfolded his perplexities. As usual he took pride in his power of conveying atmosphere. The Countess, young Franklin, uncompromising Elizabeth – he sketched them all in with a deft touch.
‘You have changed since I first knew you,’ said Mr Quin, smiling, when the recital was over.
‘In what way?’
‘You were content then to look on at the drama that life offered. Now – you want to take part – to act.’
‘It is true,’ confessed Mr Satterthwaite. ‘But in this case I do not know what to do. It is all very perplexing. Perhaps –’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps you will help me?’
‘With pleasure,’
