am afraid that’s not going to be actually in the sphere of practical politics,’ said Derek drily.
‘How do you say? I do not understand.’
‘Van Aldin, my dear, is not taking any. He is the kind of man who makes up his mind and sticks to it.’
‘I have heard of him,’ nodded the dancer. ‘He is very rich, is he not? Almost the richest man in America. A few days ago, in Paris, he bought the most wonderful ruby in the world—“Heart of Fire” it is called.’
Kettering did not answer. The dancer went on musingly:
‘It is a wonderful stone—a stone that should belong to a woman like me. I love jewels, Dereek; they say something to me. Ah! to wear a ruby like “Heart of Fire”.’
She gave a little sigh, and then became practical once more.
‘You don’t understand these things. Dereek; you are only a man. Van Aldin will give these rubies to his daughter, I suppose. Is she his only child?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then when he dies, she will inherit all his money. She will be a rich woman.’
‘She is a rich woman already,’ said Kettering drily. ‘He settled a couple of millions on her at her marriage.’
‘A couple of million! But that is immense. And if she died suddenly, eh? That would all come to you?’
‘As things stand at present,’ said Kettering slowly, ‘it would. As far as I know she has not made a will.’
‘Mon Dieu!’ said the dancer. ‘If she were to die, what a solution that would be.’
There was a moment’s pause, and then Derek Kettering laughed outright.
‘I like your simple, practical mind, Mirelle, but I am afraid what you desire won’t come to pass. My wife is an extremely healthy person.’
‘Eh bien!’ said Mirelle; ‘there are accidents.’
He looked at her sharply but did not answer.
She went on.
‘But you are right, mon ami, we must not dwell on possibilities. See now, my little Dereek, there must be no more talk of this divorce. Your wife must give up the idea.’
‘And if she won’t?’
The dancer’s eyes narrowed to slits.
‘I think she will, my friend. She is one of those who would not like the publicity. There are one or two pretty stories that she would not like her friends to read in the newspapers.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Kettering sharply.
Mirelle laughed, her head thrown back.
‘Parbleu! I mean the gentleman who calls himself the Comte de la Roche. I know all about him. I am Parisienne, you remember. He was her lover before she married you, was he not?’
Kettering took her sharply by the shoulders.
‘That is a damned lie,’ he said, ‘and please remember that, after all, you are speaking of my wife.’
Mirelle was a little sobered.
‘You are extraordinary, you English,’ she complained. ‘All the same, I dare say that you may be right. The Americans are so cold, are they not? But you will permit me to say, mon ami, that she was in love with him before she married you, and her father stepped in and sent the Comte about his business. And the little Mademoiselle, she wept many tears! But she obeyed. Still, you must know as well as I do, Dereek, that it is a very different story now. She sees him nearly every day, and on the 14th she goes to Paris to meet him.’
‘How do you know all this?’ demanded Kettering.
‘Me? I have friends in Paris, my dear Dereek, who know the Comte intimately. It is all arranged. She is going to the Riviera, so she says, but in reality the Comte meets her in Paris and—who knows! Yes, yes, you can take my word for it, it is all arranged.’
Derek Kettering stood motionless.
‘You see,’ purred the dancer, ‘if you are clever, you have her in the hollow of your hand. You can make things very awkward for her.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake be quiet,’ cried Kettering. ‘Shut your cursed mouth!’
Mirelle flung herself down on the divan with a laugh. Kettering caught up his hat and coat and left the flat, banging the door violently. And still the dancer sat on the divan and laughed softly to herself. She was not displeased with her work.
‘Mrs Samuel Harfield presents her compliments to Miss Katherine Grey and wishes to point out that under the circumstances Miss Grey may not be aware—’
Mrs Harfield, having written so far fluently, came to a dead stop, held up by what has proved an insuperable difficulty to many other people—namely, the difficulty of expressing oneself fluently in the third person.
After a minute or two of hesitation, Mrs Harfield tore up the sheet of notepaper and started afresh.
Dear Miss Grey,—Whilst fully appreciating the adequate way you discharged your duties to my Cousin Emma (whose recent death has indeed been a severe blow to us all), I cannot but feel—
Again Mrs Harfield came to a stop. Once more the letter was consigned to the wastepaper-basket. It was not until four false starts had been made that Mrs Harfield at last produced an epistle that satisfied her. It was duly sealed and stamped and addressed to Miss Katherine Grey, Little Crampton, St Mary Mead, Kent, and it lay beside the lady’s plate on the following morning at breakfast-time in company with a more important-looking communication in a long blue envelope.
Katherine Grey opened Mrs Harfield’s letter first. The finished production ran as follows:
Dear Miss Grey,—My husband and I wish to express our thanks to you for your services to my poor cousin, Emma. Her death has been a great blow to us, though we were, of course, aware that her mind has been failing for some time past. I understand that her latter testamentary dispositions have been of a most peculiar character, and they would not hold good, of course, in any court of law. I have no doubt that, with your usual good sense, you have already realized this fact. If these matters can be arranged privately it is always so much better, my husband says. We shall be pleased to recommend you most highly for a similar post, and hope that you will also accept a small present. Believe me, dear Miss Grey, yours cordially.
Mary Anne Harfield.
Katherine Grey read the letter through, smiled
