I said.
She closed her eyes. I saw now she was very tired. I thought she had gone to sleep and I looked in front of me puzzling out the problem. Presently the cab-doors were thrust violently open, and if I had net held her back, she would have jumped out of the vehicle.
“Look!” she cried, in great excitement. “There! There’s Harry’s name!”
She pointed to a butcher’s cart immediately in front of us, bearing, in large letters, the name of “E. Robinson.”
“We must stop,” she went on. “He will tell us about Harry.”
It took me from Oxford Circus to Portman Square to convince her that there were many thousands of Robinsons in London and that the probability of the butcher’s cart being a clue to Harry’s whereabouts was exceedingly remote.
At Baker Street station she asked, wearily: “Is it still far to your house?”
“No,” said I, encouragingly. “Not very far.”
“But one can drive for many days through streets in London, and there will be still streets, still houses? So they tell me in Alexandretta. London is as big as the moon, not so?”
I felt absurdly pleased. She was capable of an idea. I had begun to wonder whether she were not merely half-witted. The fact of her being able to read had already cheered me.
“Many hours, yes,” I corrected, “not many days. London seems big to you?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, passing her hand over her eyes. “It makes all go round in my head. One day you will take me for a drive through these wonderful streets. Now I am too tired. They make my head ache.”
Then she shut her eyes again and did not open them until we stopped at Lingfield Terrace. I modified my first impression of her animal unimpressionability. She is quite sane. If Boadicea were to be brought back to life and be set down suddenly at Charing Cross, her psychological condition would not be far removed from that of an idiot. Yet in her own environment Boadicea was quite a sane and capable lady.
My admirable man Stenson opened the door and admitted us without moving a muscle. He would betray no incorrect astonishment if I brought home a hippogriff to dinner. I have an admiration for the trained serving-man’s imperturbability. It is the guardian angel of his self-respect. I ordered him to send Antoinette to me in the drawing-room.
“Antoinette,” said I, “this young lady has travelled all the way from Asia Minor, where the good St. Paul had so many adventures, without changing her things.”
“C’est y Dieu possible!” said Antoinette.
“Give her a nice hot bath, and perhaps you will have the kindness to lend her the underlinen that your sex is in the habit of wearing. You will put her into the spare bedroom, as she is going to pass the night here, and you will look generally after her comfort.”
“Bien, M’sieu,” said Antoinette, regarding Carlotta in stupefaction.
“And put that hat and dress into the dust-bin.”
“Bien, M’sieu.”
“And as Mademoiselle is broken with fatigue, having come without stopping from Asia Minor, she will go to bed as soon as possible.”
“The poor angel,” said Antoinette. “But will she not join Monsieur at dinner?”
“I think not,” said I, dryly.
“But the young ducklings that are roasting for the dinner of Monsieur?”
“If they were not roasting they might be growing up into ducks,” said I.
“Oh, la, la!” murmured Antoinette, below her breath.
“Carlotta,” said I, turning to the girl who had seated herself humbly on a straight-backed chair, “you will go with Antoinette and do as she tells you. She doesn’t talk English, but she is used to making people understand her.”
“Mais, moi parley Francais un peu,” said Carlotta.
“Then you will win Antoinette’s heart, and she will lend you her finest. Good-night,” said I, abruptly. “I hope you will have a pleasant rest.”
She took my outstretched hand, and, to my great embarrassment, raised it to her lips. Antoinette looked on, with a sentimental moisture in her eyes.
“The poor angel,” she repeated.
Later, I gave Stenson a succinct account of what had occurred. I owed it to my reputation. Then I went upstairs and dressed for dinner. I consider I owe that to Stenson. It was eight o’clock before I sat down, but Antoinette’s ducklings were delicious and brought consolation for the upheaval of the day. I was unfolding the latest edition of The Westminster Gazette with which I always soothe the digestive half-hour after dinner, when Antoinette entered to report progress.
She was sound asleep, the poor little one. Oh, but she was tired. She had eaten some consomme, a bit of fish and an omelette. But she was beautiful, gentle as a lamb; and she had a skin on dirait du satin. Had not Monsieur noticed it?
I replied, with some over-emphasis, that I had not.
“Monsieur rather regards the inside of his books,” said Antoinette.
“They are generally more worth regarding,” said I.
Antoinette said nothing; but there was a feminine quiver at the corners of her fat lips.
She was comfortably disposed of for the night. I drew a breath of relief. To-morrow Great Scotland Yard should set out on the track of the absconding Harry. Carlotta’s happy recollection of his surname facilitated the search. I lit a cigarette and opened The Westminster Gazette.
A few moments later I was staring at the paper in blank horror and dismay.
Harry was found. There was no mistake. Harry Robinson, junior partner of the firm of Robinson & Co., of Mincing Lane. Vain, indeed, would it be to seek the help of Great Scotland Yard. Harry had blown out his brains in the South Western Hotel at Southampton.
I have read the newspaper paragraph over and over again to-night. There is no possible room for doubt that it is the same Harry.
The ways of man are past interpretation. Here is an individual who lures a girl from an oriental harem, attires her in disgusting garments, smuggles her on board a steamer, where he claps her, so to speak, under hatches, and has little if anything to do with her, sets her penniless and ticketless in a London train, and then goes off and blows his brains out. Where is the sense of it?
I have not a spark of sympathy for Harry—a callow, egotistical dealer in currants. He ought to have blown out his brains a year ago. He has behaved in a most unconscionable manner. How does he expect me to break the news to Carlotta? His selfishness is appalling. There he lies, comfortably dead in the South Western Hotel, while Carlotta has literally not a rag to her back, her horrific belongings having been dropped into the dust-bin. Who does he think is going to provide Carlotta with food and shelter and a pink dress? What does he
