Célestine hesitated, her change of countenance showed that the prospect was an alarming one.
"But what can I do then?" she debated. "I don't see—"
Lennox leaned across the little wooden table that divided them. "You could let a friend go, mademoiselle," he suggested. "A friend might manage it for you. If you look upon me as a friend, and I am proud to hope you do, if you would put the matter into my hands, why, you know it would be an honour and a pleasure to come to serve you."
Célestine considered the matter a minute, then she looked up at him through her eyelashes. "If Monsieur would be so good, I see now that it would be safer. But indeed I do not like to trouble you."
"Trouble taken for you is a pleasure to me, mademoiselle," the inspector declared gallantly. "I will walk up to Heron's Carew without delay if you will give me the track to go upon."
Célestine looked all around and lowered her voice. "I will tell you all from the beginning. You remember perhaps that I say that on the night of Lady Denborough's dinner party miladi have a migraine, that she stay at home and go out later."
Lennox nodded. "I remember thinking that she must have gone out to meet a lover myself."
Célestine shook her head. "It was no lover as I told you before, monsieur. The next day I find that one of the wardrobes door is locked. I wonder and I wonder why it is, and at last I find a key that fit the lock, and I get it open. Inside, pushed down in what you call the well, I find the white tea-gown Miladi was wearing the evening before. It is all dusty now, and bedragged, and there is ink on the skirt and the bodice and the sleeves are all stained with blood. Yes, indeed, monsieur," as Lennox, in spite of his self-control, uttered an exclamation of astonishment. "Well I say nothing—me. But I take out the gown, and I put it away in one of my places, and when Miladi come to look for it, it has gone and she never guess who has it."
"Still I don't see," Mr. Lennox debated. "Her nose might have bled."
"Pah!" Célestine said contemptuously. "You have not heard all, monsieur. That night a man was killed in Leinster Avenue, and all London was trying to find a woman who visited him, a tall woman with golden hair, and only I, Célestine, knew that it was miladi for whom they were looking. Miladi went up to see that man in the flat that night that he died. Now, monsieur, shall I not have my revenge?"
"Perhaps," Lennox said slowly, "but it won't be the easy affair you think, mademoiselle. It can't be dealt with by the local police. And it isn't a matter that I can walk up to Heron's Carew and lay before Sir Anthony; that would be to spoil everything—to give the whole show away. I have got a friend at Scotland Yard; if you will allow me we will take his advice upon it, and see what he thinks we ought to do."
"As you like," Célestine's eyes narrowed into slits. "We will ask your friend what you like, only I will have my revenge," she said decidedly. "You understand, monsieur, I must not be deprived of my revenge."
Chapter XXIV
"Peggy is in the garden; you will find her there." The Dowager Lady Carew looked vaguely at the window. It was evident that she did not want to be disturbed.
With a word of apology Chesterham stepped out on to the terrace. He knew where he would be most likely to find Peggy. At an early stage of his engagement he had been made free of her favourite haunts. At the very end of the shrubbery a drooping copper beech made a shelter on the hottest day. Peggy had a table there and a couple of lounge chairs. As he parted the branches, she looked up with a quick exclamation. Her face looked white and wan, her eyes were heavy and there were purple shadows beneath.
"Peggy, sweetheart, what is the matter? What have you been doing to yourself?" Chesterham dropped the leafy screen and came forward eagerly.
But Peggy drew back, she put aside his outstretched hands. "Not to-day. Please don't," she said, with a little air of dignity that sat oddly on her small childish face.
Chesterham paused, the smile died out of his eyes. "Why, Peggy, what is it?"
Peggy laid her hand on her breast as if to hush its throbbing; she raised her eyes and looked straight at the man before her.
"An hour ago," she said steadily, "I was in Lount Wood."
"In Lount Wood?" the man's eyes fell guiltily. "Peggy, what do you mean?"
"I think you know," the girl said quietly, "I saw you—you were not alone."
"You would not blame me for a few minutes' idle talk Peggy, I overtook the girl and these Frenchwomen always try to entangle you—"
Peggy gave him one contemptuous glance. "I was there when you came," she said icily, "I was sketching the Three Beeches, a saw you meet her."
"You saw us meet!" For a moment the man had the grace to look disconcerted, then he made a desperate effort to recover his usual manner, to brazen it out. "It was only a little idle flirtation, Peggy. I was a fool and worse, I acknowledge it, but a thing like that does not affect my feeling for you. That—"
Peggy's slight contemptuous glance did not alter.
"Does it not?" she questioned icily. "I had hoped the contrary, for I must confess the knowledge that you could make appointments with my sister-in-law's dismissed maid, that you could walk with her, kiss her—Ah, you did not know I saw that—has altered my feeling towards you entirely."
She drew the glittering circlet from the third finger of her left hand, and held it out to him.
"Will you take this, please?"
He let her put the ring in his hand. "You loved me once, Peggy," he said imploringly. "You will again; you will let me give you back the ring."
"Never!" the girl exclaimed with sudden fire. "I was flattered by your attentions when we first met, Lord Chesterham. I liked you, but I never loved in the true sense of the word. I know that now, never at all."
"And who has made you so wise now?" he sneered. "But I need not ask, it is your good friend, Stephen Crasster, of course."
For a moment Peggy went very white; her great brown eyes blazed back their scorn at him, then the colour flowed slowly back to her cheeks, she held her small head very high.
"Stephen has never said a word of love to me," she said slowly. "Not a word. But it may be that from his chivalry I have learned the difference between love and what passes as love with such men as you."
"Have you really?" Chesterham laughed recklessly. His eyes were glittering, his face was red and puffy, the restraint that had marked his relations with Peggy was disappearing. "Ah, well, I am not going to lose you, my pretty Peggy; if you do not come to me for love, you shall for fear."
"Fear!" Peggy echoed disdainfully. The courage of her ancestors sounded in the thrill of her sweet young voice, she drew up her long, slim throat. "Do you imagine that I am afraid of you—of anything that you can do?"
"Not for yourself," Chesterham said slowly. As his bloodshot eyes wandered over the tall svelte figure, the charming riante face, the sullen anger in them changed to an unwilling admiration. "But for those you love."
"Those I love," Peggy said blankly. "What do you mean?" shrinking a little as if some cold wind touched her.
"Those you love," Chesterham repeated deliberately. "You would do a great deal to save them from danger, it may be from death itself, wouldn't you, Peggy? You would even for their sakes keep your promise to me," with a laugh that drove the colour from Peggy's cheeks once more.
"Will you explain yourself?" she said. "You are talking in riddles. If there is anything in your words beyond a mere empty threat you must be more definite, please."
"It is no mere empty threat," he said slowly.