young man, this is not my first trip – I have been many times before.’
‘Have you any intention of visiting the other European countries, Doctor?’ asked Rex.
‘I do not know, my friend. That I shall decide later.’
‘H’m,’ murmured Rex thoughtfully, taking a grubby envelope and pencil from his inside pocket. ‘I didn’t quite get your name, sir?’
‘The name is Steiner,’ said the German in dignified tones. ‘Doctor Ludwig Steiner. Professor of Philosophy at the University of Philadelphia.’
‘What’s your interest in coming to Europe, Doctor?’ Rex paused significantly. ‘Have you an interest in politics or…?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘I am over here on holiday, my friend,’ he said. Then added as an afterthought: ‘Just a holiday.’
2
There was something both distinctive and rather strange about Iris Archer’s well-moulded features, smooth fair hair, limpid blue eyes and vibrating voice. ‘She’s always Iris Archer,’ her critics commented, and to some extent this criticism was justified, but they rather forgot that Iris owed her success to the fact that she was able to shape an indifferent part to her own individual personality. There was something mysterious, glamorous, and rather different about Iris Archer. Seeing her on the stage one could not help feeling that she led an exciting life, that some tall, distinguished young man (hair slightly grey at the temples) was perpetually in her dressing room waiting to take her to the Savoy grill.
Iris had suddenly appeared in the West End. Some said she had played small parts on Broadway, others declared that she had toured in an obscure concert party and had inherited a sum of money with which she had set herself up in London. Certainly her very early days were never mentioned in any interview, no matter how persistent the gossip writer became.
Though she always contrived to give her acquaintances the impression that she could afford very little time to trouble about clothes, Iris was always dressed in a simple but striking fashion that lingered just a shade too long in the masculine memory.
Paul Temple had been rather surprised to meet her at a cocktail party given by a comparatively unknown publisher. Temple was even more surprised to discover that she could discuss all the latest best-sellers with an intelligence that betokened not only wide reading but a very close observation of the many spheres of life.
And what had impressed him most of all was the fact that she had not begged him to write a play for her. Nevertheless, Temple had returned home determined to do so. The First Lady Seaton was the result. It had been shelved for over a year in view of other commitments, for Temple was determined that none but Iris Archer should play the leading part.
‘Lady Seaton’ was a queer and unusual character. Temple felt certain that, played by anyone but Iris, it would prove unsympathetic. Iris had just those qualities to bring ‘Lady Seaton’ to life; to make her a distinctive creation unlike any other heroine he could ever remember seeing on the English stage.
He had been more than a little taken aback by her cable and was still deeply puzzled by it. Nevertheless, they had been in their Mayfair flat for several days before Iris made her customary extravagant entrance.
‘Darling, how nice to see you again!’ As always, there was just the right inflection in Iris’ voice.
Paul Temple and Steve rose to welcome her.
‘Steve, my dear, you look marvellous!’ cried Iris, holding out both hands. ‘Doesn’t she look marvellous, Paul? Now do tell me about the trip, I’m simply dying to hear all about it. Did you feel frightened?’
‘A little,’ confessed Steve, who was not very much at home in the air.
‘My dear, I should have been petrified,’ said Iris. ‘The very thought of all that water makes me positively violent.’
She seated herself with a tiny sigh of content.
‘You look very fit, Iris,’ said Temple quietly, surveying her intently.
‘I’m not, darling. Feel awful at times.’
‘Won’t you take your things off, Iris?’ suggested Steve.
Iris smiled and nervously fingered the clasp of her fox cape.
‘No, I can’t stay very long, darling.’
‘What about a cocktail?’ suggested Temple.
‘Yes,’ decided Iris after a short pause. ‘Yes, I would rather like a drink, my sweet.’
Temple went across to the cocktail cabinet and consulted a slip on which a recipe was typed. He remembered that Iris had a favourite cocktail.
‘Paul, you got my cable?’ Iris asked presently.
‘Yes,’ replied Temple, ‘it was handed to me just as we were getting on the ’plane.’
‘Were you surprised?’
Temple carefully speared a cherry before answering.
‘Well, just a little.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Iris, are you serious about this?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so serious in my life before,’ said Iris grimly.
‘But why?’ cried Steve in obvious surprise. ‘What’s the matter? Has Seaman been nasty about something?’ It was quite obvious that Steve was as anxious about the play as Temple himself.
‘No, no, it’s not that. He’s a swell producer,’ replied Iris hastily.
‘Is it money?’ asked Temple rather tentatively. ‘I thought we’d offered you a splendid contract. After all, we gave way to you over that picture business.’
Iris was somewhat at a loss for words.
‘I’ve been badly miscast, Paul,’ she said at last, but her tone was strangely unconvincing.
Temple could not help laughing.
‘But that’s ridiculous! You said yourself the part fitted you like a glove.’
Iris nodded. ‘That was six weeks ago,’ she added quietly. There was a disturbing note in her voice.
‘Aren’t you very well, Iris?’ queried Temple rather anxiously.
‘Not terribly,’ she confessed.
‘What are you going to do? Make a film?’
‘No,’ replied Iris uncertainly. ‘I’m—well, I’m going to the South of France for two months. When I get back I may start work again—I don’t know—yet…’
‘Are you going alone?’
‘Yes, quite alone. To a small place near St Maxime.’
Temple shrugged his shoulders and handed Iris her cocktail.
‘Well,
