even the Duke of Charmerace,” said Charolais sadly. “And it would have been so easy when he was ill—just one little draught. And he was in such a perfect place—so out of the way—no doctors.”
“You do have such disgusting ideas, Charolais,” said Lupin, in a tone of severe reproof.
“Instead of which you went and saved his life,” said Charolais, in a tone of deep discontent; and he went on clearing the table.
“I did, I did: I had grown quite fond of him,” said Lupin, with a meditative air. “For one thing, he was so very like one. I’m not sure that he wasn’t even better-looking.”
“No; he was just like you,” said Victoire, with decision. “Any one would have said you were twin brothers.”
“It gave me quite a shock the first time I saw his portrait,” said Lupin. “You remember, Charolais? It was three years ago, the day, or rather the night, of the first Gournay-Martin burglary at Charmerace. Do you remember?”
“Do I remember?” said Charolais. “It was I who pointed out the likeness to you. I said, ‘He’s the very spit of you, master.’ And you said, ‘There’s something to be done with that, Charolais.’ And then off you started for the ice and snow and found the Duke, and became his friend; and then he went and died, not that you’d have helped him to, if he hadn’t.”
“Poor Charmerace. He was indeed grand seigneur. With him a great name was about to be extinguished.… Did I hesitate?… No.… I continued it,” said Lupin.
He paused and looked at the clock. “A quarter to eight,” he said, hesitating. “Shall I telephone to Sonia, or shall I not? Oh, there’s no hurry; let the poor child sleep on. She must be worn out after that night-journey and that cursed Guerchard’s persecution yesterday. I’ll dress first, and telephone to her afterwards. I’d better be getting dressed, by the way. The work I’ve got to do can’t be done in pyjamas. I wish it could; for bed’s the place for me. My wits aren’t quite as clear as I could wish them to deal with an awkward business like this. Well, I must do the best I can with them.”
He yawned and went to the bedroom, leaving the pocket-book on the table.
“Bring my shaving-water, Charolais, and shave me,” he said, pausing; and he went into the bedroom and shut the door.
“Ah,” said Victoire sadly, “what a pity it is! A few years ago he would have gone to the Crusades; and today he steals coronets. What a pity it is!”
“I think myself that the best thing we can do is to pack up our belongings,” said Charolais. “And I don’t think we’ve much time to do it either. This particular game is at an end, you may take it from me.”
“I hope to goodness it is: I want to get back to the country,” said Victoire.
He took up the tray; and they went out of the room. On the landing they separated; she went upstairs and he went down. Presently he came up with the shaving water and shaved his master; for in the house in University Street he discharged the double functions of valet and butler. He had just finished his task when there came a ring at the front-door bell.
“You’d better go and see who it is,” said Lupin.
“Bernard is answering the door,” said Charolais. “But perhaps I’d better keep an eye on it myself; one never knows.”
He put away the razor leisurely, and went. On the stairs he found Bonavent, mounting—Bonavent, disguised in the livery and fierce moustache of a porter from the Ritz.
“Why didn’t you come to the servants’ entrance?” said Charolais, with the truculent air of the servant of a duke and a stickler for his master’s dignity.
“I didn’t know that there was one,” said Bonavent humbly. “Well, you ought to have known that there was; and it’s plain enough to see. What is it you want?” said Charolais.
“I’ve brought a letter—a letter for the Duke of Charmerace,” said Bonavent.
“Give it to me,” said Charolais. “I’ll take it to him.”
“No, no; I’m to give it into the hands of the Duke himself and to nobody else,” said Bonavent.
“Well, in that case, you’ll have to wait till he’s finished dressing,” said Charolais.
They went on up to the stairs into the ante-room. Bonavent was walking straight into the smoking-room.
“Here! where are you going to? Wait here,” said Charolais quickly. “Take a chair; sit down.”
Bonavent sat down with a very stolid air, and Charolais looked at him doubtfully, in two minds whether to leave him there alone or not. Before he had decided there came a thundering knock on the front door, not only loud but protracted. Charolais looked round with a scared air; and then ran out of the room and down the stairs.
On the instant Bonavent was on his feet, and very far from stolid. He opened the door of the smoking-room very gently and peered in. It was empty. He slipped noiselessly across the room, a pair of clippers ready in his hand, and cut the wires of the telephone. His quick eye glanced round the room and fell on the pocket-book on the table. He snatched it up, and slipped it into the breast of his tunic. He had scarcely done it—one button of his tunic was still to fasten—when the bedroom door opened, and Lupin came out:
“What do you want?” he said sharply; and his keen eyes scanned the porter with a disquieting penetration.
“I’ve brought a letter to the Duke of Charmerace, to be given into his own hands,” said Bonavent, in a disguised voice.
“Give it to me,” said Lupin, holding out his hand.
“But the Duke?” said Bonavent, hesitating.
“I am the Duke,” said Lupin.
Bonavent gave him the letter, and turned to go.
“Don’t go,” said Lupin quietly. “Wait, there may be an answer.”
There was a faint glitter in his eyes; but Bonavent missed it.
Charolais came into the room, and said, in a grumbling tone, “A run-away knock. I wish I could catch the brats; I’d warm them. They wouldn’t go fetching me away from my work again, in a hurry, I can tell you.”
Lupin opened the letter, and read it. As he read it, at first he frowned; then he smiled; and then he laughed joyously. It ran:
“SIR,”
“M. Guerchard has told me everything. With regard to Sonia I have judged you: a man who loves a thief can be nothing but a rogue. I have two pieces of news to announce to you: the death of the Duke of Charmerace, who died three years ago, and my intention of becoming engaged to his cousin and heir, M. de Relzieres, who will assume the title and the arms.”
“For Mademoiselle Gournay-Martin,”
“Her maid, IRMA.”
“She does write in shocking bad taste,” said Lupin, shaking his head sadly. “Charolais, sit down and write a letter for me.”
