“To save a man’s life,” Félice repeated nervously from the depths of her cushion. “It cannot be that.”
“Have you a single shred of evidence,” Andrew demanded, “which would render it even improbable that the bullet was fired from the window?”
Sir Richard threw the stump of his cigar away.
“Yes,” he answered.
Glenlitten towered over him—a fuming, angry man. His great muscles were swelling under the sleeves of his dinner coat; he had an almost insatiable desire to take this friend whom he had loved all his life by the shoulders and shake the breath out of him.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Out with it!”
Sir Richard shook his head unmoved.
“Andrew,” he begged, “do calm yourself. You have common sense. You must know that I cannot do as you ask. Such evidence as I have will be produced when the time comes. It will be used only to save a man’s life.”
“Save the man’s life, for God’s sake!” Andrew cried, “but save it without dragging Félice’s name into it.”
“It was not I but chance,” Sir Richard pointed out, “which placed Félice in her present unfortunate situation. All that I want to impress upon you both—both of you, whom I regard as my dear friends—is that my duty must be done. Such questions as I have asked, I have asked in all kindness. I want you to remember and believe this—you especially, Félice—the whole truth must be told.” He rose to his feet, after a glance at the clock. “You will excuse me,” he begged. “I have had a stuffy day and I need exercise. I am going to the billiard room to knock the balls about for a few minutes.”
He left the room, throwing from the threshold one more not unkindly glance towards Félice, whose beautiful, terrified eyes followed him up to the last moment. The door closed and they heard his foot” steps crossing the polished oak floor. Félice, like a frightened child, stole into her husband’s arms.
“I suppose, little sweetheart,” he whispered, “there is nothing you want to tell me?”
“There is nothing—nothing—which can be told,” she assured him passionately.
CHAPTER IX
Mario, the manager of the Legation Club, the best known and the most select of its kind, advanced to pay his respects to one of his most distinguished clients. Andrew and Félice, having enjoyed an excellent dinner, were seated in their corner listening to the dance music.
“It is surely an unusual pleasure to see your lordship in London during September,” Mario ventured.
Andrew tapped his leg.
“Put my knee out climbing a fence the other day,” he explained. “No walking for at least ten days. Thought we’d like a few days up in town, now that the crowd has cleared out, and of course we had to come and look you up.”
“It is most amiable,” the manager murmured. “If people only understood what an attractive place London can be when the tourists have gone! But it is unfortunate about the leg. Milord is not able to dance?”
“Not for a fortnight.”
Mario hesitated.
“To-night for the first time,” he announced, “I have ventured upon an experiment. I am copying the Continental fashion. I have here two lady danseuses and two young men—très gentils, of good manners—as professional dancers. So, if milady would care to dance?”
Félice shook her head.
“I am becoming very old-fashioned, Mario,” she confided, smiling up at him. “I like to dance only with my husband.”
He held her hand under the table, but laughed at her.
“Félice, my dear,” he expostulated, “don’t be silly! You know how you love it, and Ambrose is playing divinely to-night. Trot out your best young man, Mario. Her ladyship will dance with him.”
“With great pleasure,” was the gratified reply. “It will help me very much, because if people see that her ladyship accepts the fashion, others will follow. I can assure you that the young man whom I will bring will give no offence, and he dances as well as can be desired. He is a Russian—penniless, alas, since the revolution.”
“A compatriot,” Glenlitten observed. “Her ladyship is half Russian.”
The man hurried off and Félice looked up into her husband’s face with a little grimace.
“Indeed,” she murmured, “without you I do not care to dance, Andrew. You think always of my pleasure, but sometimes you do not realise that my pleasure is to be just with you.”
“Another word,” he whispered, “and I shall carry you off home, although it is only eleven o’clock. Here comes the young man—looks all right. By Jove, Félice, do you see who it is? It’s the young Russian —it’s the chap those fellows from the barracks brought over.”
“A dancing professional!” she exclaimed, and for a moment there was something unrecognisable in her tone—a little quaver, half of fear, half of indignation.
“I admire the fellow’s pluck, anyway,” Andrew observed.
Prince Charles, piloted by Mario, came to a standstill before the table. The usual greetings were exchanged, and the young man’s perfectly natural manner prevented anything in the shape of awkwardness.
“You are surprised to see me here, yes?” he asked. “Well, like the rest of us, I must earn some money, and to dance is almost my only accomplishment. I would explain,” he added, turning to Andrew, “that when I accepted your hospitality the other night I was not then engaged here.”
“Wouldn’t have made an atom of difference,” was the good-natured reply. “Hope you’ll look us up at Curzon Street some time.”
The young man bowed gravely.
“Madame will dance?” he invited.
Félice rose to her feet, after an almost imperceptible hesitation, and a moment later they glided off. The two men watched them as they threaded their way through the crowd.
“Madame dances amazingly,” Mario ventured.
“She’s jolly good,” his distinguished patron agreed. “So is your brandy, by the way—blended, of course, but wonderful. That young protegé of yours was brought over to dine at my house in Hampshire one night a few weeks ago—staying with the officers at the barracks—Prince Charles of Suess, he called himself then.”
“Without a doubt that is his name,” the manager assented. “Mr. de Suess, he prefers to be called here. It goes better with his profession.”
Meanwhile, the young man was not neglecting this heaven-sent opportunity. Although his eyes remained respectfully aloof from his companion’s, and his lips seemed scarcely to move, he was talking all the time.
“You should have let me know that you were coming to town,” he said. “There is grave trouble at home.”
“There is always trouble at