The Lost Ambassador written by E. Phillips Oppenheim

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She raised her eyes to mine. They were curiously and wonderfully
blue. Then she shook her head and withdrew her hands, sighing.

"But, monsieur," she said, "since then many things have happened. You
must not show yourself about in Paris. It is better for you to go back
to England."

"I am quite safe here," I declared.

"Then it has been arranged!" she exclaimed quickly. "Louis is, after
all, monsieur's friend. He has perhaps seen--"

"We will not talk of these things," I begged. "I would rather--"

She started, and drew a little away, glancing nervously toward the
door.

"I am terrified," she said. "Monsieur must come to my apartments one
afternoon, where we can talk without fear. There is one more question,
though," she continued rapidly. "Louis looked often at us. Tell me,
did he say anything to you about Monsieur Bartot and myself?"

"Nothing," I answered, "except that Monsieur Bartot held a somewhat
unique position in a certain corner of Paris, and that he was a person
whom it was not well to offend."

"No more?" she asked.

"No more," I answered.

"I saw him point us out to you," she remarked.

"I asked him to show me the most beautiful woman in the room," I
answered.

She shook her head.

"You are too much of a courtier for an Englishman," she said. "You do
not mean what you say."

"Even an Englishman," I answered, "can find words when he is
sufficiently moved."

I made a feint again to hold her hands, but she drew away.

"When are you going back to England?" she asked abruptly.

"To-morrow, I think," I answered, "if I am still free."

"Free!" she repeated scornfully. "If you are protected, who is there
who will dare to touch you? Monsieur Decresson has all the police
dancing to his bidding, and if that were not sufficient, Monsieur
Bartot could rescue you even from prison. No, you are safe enough,
monsieur, even if you remain here! It is Louis, eh, who is anxious for
you to return to England?"

"My time was nearly up anyhow," I told her. "It is not until this
moment that I have felt inclined to stay."

"Nevertheless," she murmured, "Monsieur goes to London to-morrow. Is
it permitted to ask--"

"Anything," I murmured.

"If monsieur goes alone?"

"I fear so," I answered, "unless mademoiselle--"

She laid her fingers upon my lips.

"Monsieur does not know the elderly gentleman and the very beautiful
girl who sat opposite him last night?" she asked,--"Monsieur Delora
and his niece?"

Somehow I felt convinced, the moment that the question had left her
lips, that her whole interest in me was centred upon my reply. She
concealed her impatience very well, but I realized that, for some
reason or other, I was sitting there by her side solely that I might
answer that question.

"I heard their names last night for the first time," I declared. "It
was Louis who told me about them."

She looked at me for several moments as though anxious to be sure that
I had spoken the truth.

"Mademoiselle!" I said reproachfully. "Let us leave these topics. I am
not interested in the Deloras, or Louis, or Monsieur Bartot. Last
night is finished, and to-morrow I leave. Let us talk for a few
moments of ourselves."

She held up her finger suddenly.

"Listen!" she exclaimed, in a voice of terror.

Footsteps had halted outside the door. She ran to the window and
looked down. In the street below was standing an automobile with
yellow wheels. I was looking over her shoulder, and she clutched my
arm.

"It is he--Bartot!" she cried. "He is here at the private
entrance. Some one has told him that I am here. Mon Dieu! It is he
outside now!"

It was bad acting, and I laughed.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "if Monsieur Bartot is your lover, be thankful
that you have nothing with which to reproach yourself."

I rang the bell. She looked at me for a moment with eyes filled with a
genuine fear. Obviously she did not understand my attitude. From my
trousers pocket I drew a little revolver, whose settings and mechanism
I carefully examined. There was a loud knock at the door and the sound
of voices outside. Monsieur Bartot entered, in a frock-coat too small
for him and a tie too large. When he saw us he fell back with a
theatrical start.

"Susette!" he exclaimed. "Susette! And you, sir!" he added, turning
to me.

He slammed the door and stood with his back to it.

"What the devil is the meaning of this?" he asked, looking from one to
the other of us.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"You had better ask mademoiselle," I answered.

"She is, I believe, an acquaintance of yours. As for me--"

"My name is Bartot, sir," he cried fiercely.

"An excellent name," I answered, "but unknown to me. I do not yet
understand by what right you intrude into a private room here."

He laughed hardly.

"'Intrude'!" he cried. "One does not call it that. 'Intrude,' when I
find you two together, eh?"

I turned to the girl, who, with her handkerchief dabbed to her eyes,
was still affecting a perfect frenzy of fear.

"Has this person any claims upon you?" I asked. "He seems to me to be
an exceedingly disagreeable fellow."

Bartot's face grew purple. His cheeks seemed to distend and his eyes
grow smaller. It was no longer necessary for him to play a part. He
was becoming angry indeed.

"Monsieur," he said, "I remember you now. It was you who tried to
flirt with this lady last night in the Cafe des Deux Epingles. You
have not even the excuse of ignorance. All the world knows that I have
claims upon this lady."

I bowed.

"Claims," I answered, "which I can assure you I am not in a position
to dispute."

"How is it, then," he asked fiercely, "that I find you two, strangers
last night, together to-day here?"

I altered one of the cartridges in my revolver and let it go with a
snap. Bartot took a quick step backwards.

"It is a long story," I said softly, "and I doubt whether it would
interest you, Monsieur Bartot. Still, if you are really curious,
mademoiselle will satisfy you later."

I saw a look pass between the two, and I no longer had any doubt
whatever. I knew that they were in collusion, that I had been brought
here to be pumped by mademoiselle.

"Monsieur," Bartot said, "you are apparently armed, and you can leave
this room if you will, but I warn you that you will not leave Paris so
easily."

The situation was quite plain to me. However little flattering it
might be to my vanity, I should not have been in the least surprised
if Monsieur Bartot had held out his hands, begged my pardon, and
ordered a bottle of wine.

"Be reasonable, monsieur," I begged. "It is open to every one, surely,
to admire mademoiselle? For the rest, I have been here only a few
moments. So far as I am concerned," I added, glancing at the table,
"mademoiselle has lunched alone."

"If I could believe that!" Bartot muttered, with a look of coming
friendship in his eyes.

"Mademoiselle will assure you," I continued.

"Then what are you doing here?" he asked.

I raised my eyebrows.

"I was not aware," I said, "that this was a private restaurant."

"But these are private rooms," he answered. "Still, if it was a
mistake,--I trust mademoiselle always."

She held out her hands to him with a theatrical gesture.

"Henri," she cried, "you could not doubt me! It is impossible!"

"You are right," he answered quickly. "I was too hasty."

I smiled upon them both.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I am sorry that our pleasant little
conversation has been interrupted. Believe me, though, to be always
your devoted slave."

I opened the door. Monsieur Bartot turned towards me. I am convinced
that he was about to offer me his hand and to call for that bottle of
wine. I felt, however, that flight was safest. I went out and closed
the door.

"The bill, monsieur?" a waiter called after me as I descended the
stairs.

I gave him five francs for a _pour boire_.

"Monsieur there will pay," I told him, pointing towards the room.

CHAPTER VIII

LOUIS INSISTS

I arrived at the Ritz to find Louis walking impatiently up and down
the stone-flagged pavement outside the entrance. He came up to me
eagerly as I approached.

"I have been waiting for you for more than an hour!" he exclaimed.

I looked at him in some surprise. I had not yet grown accustomed to
hear him speak in such a tone.

"Did I say that I was coming straight back?" I asked.

"Of course not," he answered. "After you left, though, I had some
trouble with Monsieur Grisson. There is a chance that we may have to
move Tapilow to a hospital, and he is just one of those fools who
talk. Monsieur Grisson insists upon it that you leave Paris by the
four o'clock train this afternoon."

I shook my head.

"I could not catch it," I declared. "It is half-past three now."

"On the other hand, you can and you must," Louis answered. "I took the
liberty of telephoning in your name and ordering the valet to pack
your clothes. Your luggage is in the hall there, and that automobile
is waiting to take you to the Gare du Nord."

I opened my mouth to protest, but Louis' manner underwent a further
change.

"Captain Rotherby," he said, "it is I and my friends who save you,
perhaps, from a considerable inconvenience. Forgive me if I remind you
of this, but it is not fitting that you should argue with us on this
matter."

Louis was right. For more reasons than he knew of, it was well that I
should leave Paris.

"Are you coming with me?" I asked.

"I am crossing by the night boat," Louis answered. "I have not quite
finished the work for which I came over. I have some things to buy."

I smiled.

"Upon my word," I said, "I had forgotten your profession."

I went back into the hotel and paid my bill. Louis drove with me to
the station and saw to the registration of my luggage. Afterwards he
found my reserved seat, in which I arranged my rug and books. Then I
turned and walked down the corridor with him.

"I trust," he said, "that monsieur will have a pleasant journey and
pleasant companions."

I glanced into the _coupe_ which we were just passing. It seemed
curious that even as the wish left his lips I should find myself
looking into the dark eyes of the girl whose face had been so often in
my thoughts during the last few days! Opposite her was the
gray-bearded man Delora, already apparently immersed in a
novel. Every seat in the compartment was laden with their small
belongings,--dressing-bags, pillows, a large jewel-case, books,
papers, flowers, and a box of chocolates. I turned to Louis.

"Again," I remarked, "we meet friends. What a small place the world
is!"

We stepped down on to the platform. Louis, for some reason, seemed
slightly nervous. He glanced up at the clock and watched the few late
arrivals with an interest which was almost intense.

"Monsieur," he said, a little abruptly, "there is a question which I
should like to ask you before you leave."

"There are a good many I should like to ask you, Louis," I answered,
"but they will keep. Go ahead."

"I should like to know," Louis said, "where you spent the hour which
passed between your leaving the Cafe Normandy and arriving at the
Ritz."

I hesitated for a moment. After all, I had no reason to keep my
movements secret. It was better, indeed, to avoid complications so far
as possible.

"You shall know if you like, Louis," I said. "I kept my appointment
with the young lady of the turquoises."

Louis' pale face seemed suddenly strained.

"It was my fault!" he muttered. "I should not have left you! You do
not understand how those affairs are here in Paris! If Bartot knew--"

"Bartot did know," I interrupted.

Louis' face was a study.

"Bartot came in while I was talking to mademoiselle," I said.

"There was a scene?" Louis inquired breathlessly. "Bartot threatened
monsieur? Perhaps there were blows?"

"Nothing of the sort," I answered. "Bartot blustered a little and
mademoiselle wrung her hands, but they played their parts badly.
Between you and me, Louis, I have a sort of an idea that Bartot's
coming was not altogether accidental."

"It was a trap," Louis murmured softly. "But why?"

I shook my head.

"Louis," I said, "I am the wrong sort of man to be even a temporary
dweller in this nest of intrigue. I do not understand it at all. I do
not understand any of you. I only know that I owe you and those other
gentlemen a very considerable debt, and I have been solemnly warned
against you by the young lady whom I met at the Cafe de Paris. I have
been assured that association with you is the first step toward my
undoing. Monsieur Bartot, for all his bluster, seemed very anxious to
be friendly."

"It was the girl!" Louis exclaimed. "Bartot was too big a fool to
understand!"

I sighed.

"I fear that I am in the same position as Monsieur Bartot," I said. "I
do not understand!"

There was a warning cry. I had only just time to swing myself on to
the slowly moving train. Louis ran for a moment by the side.

"Those people are harmless," he said. "They merely wished, if they
could, to make use of you. Mademoiselle has tied other fools to her
chariot wheels before now, that Bartot may grow fat. But, monsieur!"

I leaned over to catch his words.

"If Monsieur or Mademoiselle Delora should address you," he said, "you
need have no fear. They are not of the same order as Bartot and
Susette."

"I will remember," I answered, waving my farewells.

I regained my compartment, which I was annoyed to find had filled up
till mine was the only vacant seat. I had not had time to buy any
papers or magazines, but, after all, I had enough to interest me in my
thoughts. Of Tapilow I scarcely thought at all. He and I had met, and
I had kept my oath. So far as I was concerned, that was the end. I had
not even any fears for my own safety as regards this matter. My
interview with Decresson and his friend had had a curiously convincing
effect upon me. I felt that I had been tried for my crime, and
acquitted, in the most orthodox fashion. For me the curtain had fallen
upon that tragedy. It was the other things which occupied my mind. I
seemed to have found my way into a maze, to have become mixed up in
certain affairs in a most mysterious and inexplicable way. What was
the meaning of that place to which Louis had introduced me? Was it
some sort of secret organization,--an organization which assumed to
itself, at any rate, the power to circumvent the police? And Bartot,
too! Had he really the power which Louis had declared him to possess?
If so, why had he baited a clumsy trap for me and permitted me to walk
out of it untouched? What did they want from me, these people? The
thought was utterly confusing. I could find absolutely no
explanation. Then, again, another puzzle remained. I remembered Louis'
desire, almost command, that I should return to London by this
particular train. Had he any reason for it? Was it connected in any
way, I wondered, with the presence of this man and girl in the next
compartment? It seemed feasible, even if inexplicable.

I rose and strolled down the corridor, looking in at the _coupe_
where these two people sat, with all the banal impertinence of the
curious traveller. The girl met my eyes once and afterwards simply
ignored me. The man never looked up from his magazine. I passed and
repassed three or four times. The effect was always the same. At last
I resumed my seat. At any rate, they showed no pressing desire to make
my acquaintance!

At Boulogne I descended at once into the saloon and made a hasty
meal. When I came up on deck in the harbor I found that the chair
which I had engaged was lashed close to the open door of a private
cabin, and in the door of that cabin, standing within a few feet of
me, was the niece of Monsieur Delora. I racked my brains for something
to say. She gave me no encouragement whatever. At last I descended to
a banality.

"We shall have rather a rough crossing, I am afraid," I said, touching
my cap.

She looked at me as though surprised that I should have ventured to
address her. She did not take the trouble to be annoyed. She answered
me, indeed, with civility, but in a manner which certainly did not
encourage me to attempt any further conversation. There was a moment's
pause. Then she turned away and spoke to some one behind her in the
cabin. A moment or two later the door was closed and I was left
alone. After that it seemed ridiculous to imagine that there was any
special significance to be attached to the fact that we were fellow
passengers.

The crossing was a rough one, and I saw nothing more of either Delora
or the girl. I had very little hand baggage, and I was one of the
first to reach the train, where I made myself comfortable in the
corner seat of a carriage towards the rear end. The inspector, whom I
knew very well, locked my door, and until the last moment it seemed as
though I should have the compartment to myself. The train, indeed, was
on the point of starting, and I had almost given up looking out for my
fellow passengers when they came hurrying up along the platform. I saw
them glancing into the windows of every carriage in the hope of
finding a seat. Two porters carried their small baggage. An
obsequious guard followed in the rear. Just as they were opposite to
the carriage in which I was sitting the whistle blew.

"Plenty of room higher up!" the inspector exclaimed. "Take your
seats, please."

"We will get in here," the girl answered,--"that is to say, unless it
is a reserved carriage. Please to open the door at once."

The inspector hesitated, remembering the tip which I had given him,
but he had no alternative. The guard produced his key and opened the
door. It was not until that moment that the girl recognized me. She
stepped back, and the look which she threw in my direction was
certainly not flattering.

"Can you find us another carriage?" she asked the guard, imperiously.

"Quite impossible, miss," the man answered. "You must get in here or
be left behind."

They had barely time to take their seats. As my place was next to the
window, I felt bound to help the porter hand in the small packages.
The man Delora, who was wrapped up in a fur coat, and who looked
ghastly ill, thanked me courteously enough, but the girl ignored my
assistance. They took the two corner seats at the further end of the
carriage. Delora immediately composed himself to sleep.

"It was a wretched crossing!" he said to the girl,--"the most
miserable crossing I have ever had! And these trains,--so small, so
uncomfortable!"

She shrugged her shoulders.

"When one travels," she said, "I suppose that one must put up with
inconveniences of all sorts."

I knew very well that the last part of her sentence not only had
reference to me, but was intended for my hearing. I affected,
however, to be absorbed in the magazine which I was reading, and under
cover of which I was able to make a close observation of the man, who
was sitting on the same side as myself. He had put up his feet and
closed his eyes, but he had evidently suffered badly from sea-sickness,
for his face remained almost deathly white, and he shivered now and
then as though with cold. He had lost the well-groomed air which had
distinguished him in Paris. His features were haggard and worn, and he
looked at least ten years older. His clothes were excellently made,
and the fur coat which he had wrapped around himself was
magnificent. For the rest, he seemed tired out--a man utterly wearied
of life. Before we had reached the town station he was asleep.

The train rushed on into the darkness, and after a time I ventured to
glance toward the girl. She, too, was leaning back in her place, but
her face was turned a little away from me towards the window, through
which she was gazing with the obvious intentness of one whose thoughts
are far away. I had all my life been used to observing closely people
of either sex who interested me, and I found now, as I had found
during those various accidental meetings in Paris, that the study of
this young woman afforded me a peculiar pleasure. Apart from her more
personal fascination, she was faultlessly dressed. She wore a black
tailor-made suit, perhaps a little shorter than is usual for
travelling in England, patent shoes,--long and narrow,--and black silk
stockings. Her hat was a small toque, and her veil one of those for
which Frenchwomen are famous,--very large, but not in the least
disfiguring. This, however, she had raised for the present, and I was
able to study the firm but fine profile of her features, to notice the
delicacy of her chin, her small, well-shaped ears, her eyebrows--black
and silky. Her eyes themselves were hidden from me, but their color
had been the first thing which had attracted me. They were of a blue
so deep that sometimes they seemed as black as her eyebrows
themselves. It was only when she smiled or came into a strong light
that they seemed suddenly to flash almost to violet. Her figure was
slim--she was, indeed, little more than a girl--but very shapely and
elegant. She could scarcely be called tall, but there was something
in her carriage which seemed to exaggerate her height. The very poise
of her head indicated a somewhat contemptuous indifference to the
people amongst whom she moved.

I had kept my scrutiny under control, prepared for any sudden movement
on the part of the girl; but after all she was too quick for me. She
turned from the window with a perfectly natural movement, and yet so
swiftly that our eyes met before I could look away. She leaned a
little forward in her place, and her forehead darkened.

"Perhaps, sir," she said, "you will be good enough to tell me the
meaning of your persistent impertinence?"

CHAPTER IX

A TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE

Her words were so unexpected that for a moment or two I was
speechless. On the whole, I scarcely felt that I deserved the cold
contempt of her voice or the angry flash in her eyes.

"I am afraid I don't understand you," I said. "If you refer to the
fact that I was watching you with some interest at that moment, I
suppose I must plead guilty. On the other hand, I object altogether to
the term 'impertinence.'"

"And why do you object?" she asked, looking at me steadily, and
beating with her little hand the arm-rest by her side. "If your
behavior is not impertinence, pray what is it? We meet at the Opera.
You look. It is not enough for you that you look once, but you look
twice, three times. You come out on to the pavement to hear the
address which my uncle gives the chauffeur. We go to a restaurant for
supper, where only the few are admitted. You are content to be
brought by a waiter, but you are there! You travel to England by the
same train,--you walk up and down past my compartment. You presume to
address me upon the boat. You give a fee to the guard that he should
put us in your carriage. Yet you object to the term 'impertinence'!"

"I do," I answered, "most strongly. I consider your use of the word
absolutely uncalled for."

She looked across at the sleeping man. He was breathing heavily, and
was evidently quite unconscious of our conversation.

"Your standard of manners is, I am afraid, a peculiar one," she said.
"In Paris one is used always to be stared at. Englishmen, I was told,
behaved better."

She took up a magazine and turned away with a shrug of the shoulders.
I leaned a little further forward in my place, and lowered my voice so
as not to disturb the sleeping man.

"You are really unjust to me," I said. "I will plead guilty to
noticing you at the Opera House, but I did so as I would have done any
well-dressed young woman who formed a part of the show there. So far
as regards my visit to the Cafe des Deux Epingles, I went at the
suggestion of Louis, whom I met by accident, and who is the _maitre
d'hotel_ at my favorite restaurant. I had no idea that you were
going to be there. On the contrary, I distinctly heard your companion
tell your chauffeur to drive to the Ritz. I came on this train by
accident, and although it is true that I spoke to you as I might have
done to any other travelling companion, I deny that there was anything
in the least impertinent either in what I said or how I said it. So
far as regards your coming into this carriage," I added, "I feed the
guard to keep it to myself, and although I will not say that your
presence is unwelcome, it is certainly unsought for."

She was silent for a moment, watching me all the time intently. My
words seemed to have given her food for thought.

"Listen," she said, leaning forward. "Do you mean to say that that was
your first visit to the Cafe des Deux Epingles?"

"Absolutely my first visit," I answered. "I met Louis by accident that
night. He knew that I was bored, and he took me there."

"You met him at the Opera and you asked him who we were," she
remarked.

"That is quite true," I admitted, "but I scarcely see that there was
anything impertinent in that. Afterwards we spoke together for a
little time. I told him that I was alone in Paris and bored. It was
because I was alone that we went out together."

Her forehead was wrinkled with perplexity. Her eyes seemed always to
be seeking mine, as though anxious to learn whether I were indeed
speaking the truth.

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