# The Vanity Box/Chapter 21

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CHAPTER XXI
"What an extraordinary thing that you should come to St. Pierre de Chartreuse!" Terry Ricardo said to Sir Ian, elaborately unconscious that Nora had walked away, and gone into the house.
The two stood alone, together on the hotel balcony, for the landlord seeing that they were old acquaintances who had something to say to each other, vanished discreetly, to hurry after the young lady and show her the rooms which had been reserved on receipt of a telegram from Chamounix.
"Do you think it extraordinary?" Sir Ian asked, with an odd wistfulness in his tone.
"Why, yes. It is such a little village," said Terry. "So few English people have heard of it."
"I heard of it more than thirteen years ago, and never forgot," answered Sir Ian, looking over the hills into the sunset. "A girl described it to me once in India, and said she loved it. Since then I often thought I would come, if I needed peace and rest. From the description it seemed that kind of place."
"You mean—is it possible you remember a talk we once had?"
​"I don't easily forget. It was at Major Raine's dinner party, and we——"
"Yes—yes, I know."
"I've felt just lately as if I should go out of my mind if I stayed in England. I had to get clear away. The thought of putting the Channel between me and—and—— But you understand."
"Oh, yes."
"And the idea of this little place which you had loved kept floating in my brain. I said to myself that, if I liked it as much as I expected to, I would have it to return to again after—you know, of course, that I must go back to Riding Wood for a few days."
"I know. So you mean to stay for awhile at dear little St. Pierre de Chartreuse?"
"No," said Sir Ian. "I don't mean to stay."
"Don't you like it, then, after all?" Terry's face fell.
"I've grown to love it, though I've only been here three days. I have taken some beautiful walks. I should think you could find a new walk every day for a month."
"Why, that's what I used to say!"
"I know you did."
"Yet, you don't mean to stop?"
"No."
Terry looked up at him searchingly. "Please tell me truly. Is it because we have come?"
​"Yes," Sir Ian answered.
"We spoil the place for you!"
"You know that isn't the reason," he said, "and it would be cruel to pretend you think it is. But I mustn't stop here, now you have come. Terry," (he seemed to speak her name unconsciously, and then start at the sound of it in his own voice)—"that old fox Smedley has taken it upon himself to play detective, and is following me about, delighting in the fact that I know what he's after. He wears a sort of defiant 'Cat may look at a King air,' if I run across him in a railway-station or a hotel corridor. I've dodged him, or he's letting me hope I have, since Grenoble, but he may turn up at any time. I don't know what his object is, unless to annoy me, and yet——"
"I know," said Terry, flushing deeply, but with eyes frank and unashamed. "No doubt he made it his business to find out that I was coming abroad too, and he wanted to see if——"
"Probably," Sir Ian drily asserted, as she paused. "Well he mustn't see what he wants to see. By Jove, shooting would be too good for a beast like that!" When these words had broken from him, Sir Ian winced. After such a tragedy as had just darkened his life, a man does not speak lightly of shooting. For a second he had forgotten; but now he was sorely conscious again of the weight of his burden.
​"You are going to let the thought of Major Smedley drive you away from this little abode of peace!" Terry exclaimed.
Sir Ian looked at her, but didn't speak. He would not say, "It is for your sake." It ought not to be necessary to say that.
His look calmed Terry, who was always ruffled to the point of extreme irritation by the very mention of Major Smedley's name. It was infuriating that so mean a creature should have power to obtrude himself upon her life, or Ian Hereward's; but an instant's reflection showed her that Sir Ian was right.
"It is a pity," she said. "I think it would have done us both good to have a few friendly talks together in a place like this, for I want to keep your friendship, Ian; and I have given you mine. But at such a time, with Major Smedley spying upon us with his hateful cat's eyes, everything would be spoiled. I see that. But it's a pity—a pity!"
"I've had three peaceful days. He can't rob me of those," answered Sir Ian, with a tired smile. "I feel better for them, and for even this short talk with you—this sight of you. I take it as a blessing. Besides——"
"Besides—what?" she asked, when he stopped.
"Why, you seemed to be with me here, before you came, before I dreamed you might come. Your old self, showing me the walks you told me about, so long ​ago. I am glad I've been able to see the place—you don't mind."
"Why should I mind, Ian?"
"I hope there's no reason. Since Smedley hasn't turned up, no harm is done."
"He is here!" said Terry quickly, in a changed voice.
They both glanced down the road. A carriage was driving up. In it sat Major Smedley, old-looking and yellow in his gray flannels and travelling-cap. Even as they saw him, he saw them, standing there together on the hotel balcony. A flash of intelligence darted from his eyes. He half smiled; and then bit his lip. As he raised his cap to Miss Ricardo, she turned her shoulder, cutting him deliberately.
"Too late!" she whispered. "Well—it was to be!"
"Wiser not to have cut him like that, Terry," Sir Ian said quickly. "It will make him more venomous."
"Nothing could make him more venomous! This has happened, and I'm not going to be afraid of the creature. Ian, you mustn't go away from St. Pierre de Chartreuse now. You see, it would only look as if he had caught us, and we were ashamed. There is nothing in the world for either of us to be ashamed of."
"No, I won't go at once," Sir Ian answered.
The landlord came out again from the hotel, which was one of those simple inns where patron and manager are one and the same. As he prepared to welcome the ​latest arrival, Terry spoke with him in English. "Has Miss Verney registered her name and mine yet, monsieur?" she inquired, with the intention of quietly letting Major Smedley know, without delay, that she had just come to St. Pierre de Chartreuse. (He would soon find out that Sir Ian had been several days in the hotel.)
The landlord replied that the young lady had already signed the necessary papers, for herself and her friend; and as Miss Ricardo had apparently no more questions to ask, he was free to give his attention to the new guest.
Then when Terry had been answered, she began talking to Sir Ian as if nothing had happened; but her heart was beating fast, and she had not longer any joy in the thought of her well-loved St. Pierre de Chartreuse. It might have been pleasant to meet and associate with Ian Hereward as a friend, if there could indeed be any joy in life for either, after the ordeal through which they had passed, and had still to pass; but of course, everything was spoiled now. She hardly knew what she said to Sir Ian, after Major Smedley had gone into the hotel with the landlord, and she was glad though surprised to see Nora Verney appear at the door.
"Oh, Miss Ricardo!" exclaimed the girl. "If you won't think me rude, may I beg you to come inside for a few minutes?"
​"I was just ready to come," answered Terry. "Au revoir, Sir Ian."
She smiled at him in her sweet and friendly way, leaving him at once, and going in to Nora, who had already vanished from the door.
The girl was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking anxious and excited, her beautiful eyes very bright.
"I don't want to take you away from him," she apologized. "Only—if I might speak to you about something—something important to me, and then you could go back——"
"I don't need to go back," said Terry. "I would like to look at our rooms with you. Perhaps you ran down to tell me they weren't nice? If there's anything wrong, I can ask the landlord——"
"Oh, no, the rooms are very nice," replied Nora. "You'll be angry, I'm afraid, but I got thinking after I went in and left you talking to Sir Ian; what if you would speak to him about my Ian, and——"
"I didn't tell him," Terry broke in. "But suppose I had? Sir Ian was always his friend. You don't dream that his knowing would make the slightest difference?"
"Sir Ian wouldn't tell. I don't mean that," Nora explained. "But I'm sure Ian would hate to have him know he was here, and how. I thought perhaps you mightn't think it any harm to tell him—so I flew down, as soon as the idea came into my head, to beg you not."
​"Of course I won't say a word if you don't wish me to," returned Terry. "It's your secret. But really your manner with Sir Ian is very strange. You didn't shake hands, and you rushed away as if you hated the sight of him."
"I do!" the girl panted almost weeping; then she drew her breath in sharply, as if she had said something she ought not to have said. "I can't explain," she went on piteously, "any more than I could explain before about not accepting kindness from you, as if it were given for his sake. If you are angry with me, you must just send me away. I can't help it."
"I'm not angry, but I'm very sorry," said Miss Ricardo. "I don't pretend to understand how you feel toward Sir Ian, or why you hate to see him; but I don't want you to explain, since you find it so hard. In any case, perhaps it would be better not. But I'm sorry, because (though I hadn't the remotest idea of this meeting, you may be sure) for some reasons it is best for him to stop on here instead of going away. Now it's my turn not to explain; but I think you will take my word. We must stay; and he, too, must stay, for a day or so at least."
Nora bowed her head and did not answer. They went up stairs together, and looked at the rooms; two bedrooms adjoining, and a sitting-room, with a charming view from the windows. Terry professed to be delighted with everything, and they talked no more of ​Sir Ian, or Ian Barr; but even as they chatted about the exquisite grouping of the mountains, and the prettiness of the flowers with which the little suite was generously decorated, their thoughts were not with their words, which came mechanically, as women s words can.
That evening they dined in their own sitting-room; but this was not because Terry feared the prying eyes of Major Smedley. It was because she would not dine below without asking Sir Ian Hereward to sit at her table; and with Nora Verney behaving so strangely toward him, a meal together would be agreeable to no one concerned. Terry pitied Nora deeply, knowing that she suffered, and that perhaps there was no help for her suffering; but, womanlike, she could not push a certain resentfulness out of her heart. She had brought Miss Verney abroad because she was sorry for her, and because Sir Ian had asked her to be kind. It did seem a shame that the inexplicable moods of an undisciplined girl should blacken the sky already clouded by Major Smedley's hateful presence.
Terry began to pity herself as well as Nora, and Sir Ian had a great deal more than either; yet into the midst of her pity for the man would dart a sharper stab of pain sometimes. Why had Nora turned against him? If he had been a man of different nature, dark thoughts might have flitted across her fancy; but—no, she could not, would not, believe anything vulgarly base of Ian Hereward. She would believe ​that he loved his wife; that he had been true to her in thought and deed; that he passionately regretted her death, for which he had been in no way responsible; and that whatever Nora Verney's reasons were for disliking him, they were childish or unjust.
It had been easy to say that she did not want to know them, but Terry could not control her curiosity, nor could she prevent her imagination from wandering downstairs to the salle à manger, with its one long table, at which the guests who dined in public must assemble. She pictured Sir Ian at one end of the table, and the self-appointed detective at the other; but she was far from guessing at the presence of another detective, appointed by Scotland Yard.
Paul Michel, neat, inconspicuous, very like a middle-class French tourist, was at the table d'hôte enjoying the dinner which he felt that he had well earned. Also he was enjoying the thought of the play upon which he would presently ring up the curtain. That which was going on now, he said to himself, was no more than a prologue; but it was rather a brilliant prologue.
Since arriving Michel had accomplished a good deal. He had ferreted out the fact that the driver who conducted Miss Ricardo and Miss Verney from Chamounix, was not of St. Pierre de Chartreuse or of the neighbourhood, though the impression had been created in the Chamounix hotel that the ladies' carriage was coming from St. Pierre. No one at the latter ​place knew anything about the fellow, except that he was a stranger; and Michel's suspicions amounted almost to certainty now. A warrant was out for Ian Barr's arrest, in England, therefore Michel could get an order for the man's extradition by the French police; but the thing was, to prove identity, and the detective knew that he would be laughed at, rather than pitied, if he were unlucky enough to make a mistake.
Having discovered that the driver was a stranger, Michel went immediately to the local police, with a letter from high authorities in Paris. He stated his suspicions concerning the dark young man who spoke Italian, and gave his theory regarding the adoption of that language. It would be difficult for a foreigner to pose as a Frenchman in France, whereas a doubtful accent in another tongue might not be criticized; and a lucky knowledge of Italian, shared by two ladies, had given their conductor a great advantage in carrying out a disguise.
Michel's new colleagues, deeply interested, agreed with him in thinking that, if there were delay in confirming his suspicions, the man could easily be trapped without awaiting further developments. He could be asked to show his driving licence, and if—as it seemed probable he had hired the carriage and horses from some person not above accepting a bribe, he would be caught. If he had borrowed his licence, it would tell ​whence he had come, and the real name of the coachman. The fellow would then be called upon to prove his identity; and if unable to satisfy the police, he must remain in their hands until Michel had tightened the cords.
All being settled between the men, it was arranged that the first step should be taken the following morning, unless the detective from Scotland Yard made a fortunate coup meanwhile; but of doing this he had few hopes.
He said to himself that the sight of Sir Ian Hereward at St. Pierre de Chartreuse had given Miss Verney a shock. Evidently Miss Ricardo had not told her that she expected him; for that the meeting was pre-arranged between the two, Michel had not a doubt.
He thought the girl was evidently alarmed for the safety of her lover. She would now fear to have Sir Ian see the Italian driver lest, knowing him well, he would recognize Ian Barr. If this theory were correct, what was her first act likely to be? Michel asked himself. Naturally, she would communicate with Barr as soon as possible, perhaps making an excuse to send for the driver, and give him instructions for next day. Once with him, she would warn him that Sir Ian had arrived.
Michel was sure that this was what would happen, and that it would happen before midnight. He did not believe that Miss Verney would bring Barr into ​Miss Ricardo's sitting-room for a talk. Probably the girl would secretly smuggle a note to the small inn, where the coachman had put up, and she would arrange to meet him at some quiet spot near the hotel.
The detective could scarcely have eaten his dinner in peace if, before sitting down, he had not ascertained that the ladies were dining in private. Sure of this arrangement, he caused the door of Miss Ricardo's sitting-room to be watched by a servant of the hotel, who believed him an admirer of the younger woman, Miss Verney. If either of the ladies should go out, or receive any one, or send a note, he was to be informed at once.
It was not until after he had comfortably finished his meal, that word was brought to him of something which had happened. A waiter who served dinner in the private sitting-room had been told by the younger lady to give a letter to a porter who could run out with it immediately. The chambermaid who had earned Michel's bribe had seen the envelope. It was addressed to Guiseppe Verdi, Hotel des Bons Amis.
"Hotel des Bons Amis" was the name of the little inn at the other end of the village, where the long-haired driver was staying.
And all this was as Michel had expected, but he was not pleased that the coachman should be called Guiseppe Verdi. He was just as sure as before that ​it was Ian Barr, who had adopted the Italian name; but if he had borrowed the licence of a real Giuseppe Verdi, and the licence were an Italian licence, there might be trouble and delay unless it could be indisputably proved to-night that the man was no other than Ian Barr.