Francis Neilson, Guy Thorne, Edward G. Hemmerde
A Butterfly on the Wheel
A Novel
Published by Good Press, 2019
EAN 4064066188863
Table of Contents
"We all got on the wrong train and we all stayed the night at this hotel"
"Don't you see, man, if you call in the court to break her wings, you'll only drive her to me!"
"He caught her in his arms—in his strong arms."
PREFACE
Of all the English plays that have come to this country none has created more of a sensation than "A Butterfly on the Wheel," and without question will be received the same by the public over the entire country as it has been received in New York. The play opened at the Thirty-ninth Street Theatre on Tuesday evening, January 9th, and has played to "standing room only" at every performance since.
The story in book form has been done by C. Ranger Gull (pen name), a writer who has already gained a big reputation as an author both in America and England, and the success of "A Butterfly on the Wheel" goes without saying.
THE PUBLISHER.
A BUTTERFLY ON THE WHEEL
CHAPTER I
It was shortly after midnight in the great Hôtel des Tuileries at Paris.
Beyond the façade of the hotel the gardens of the Tuileries were sleeping in the warm night. To the left the Louvre etched itself in solid black against the sky, and all up and down the Rue de Rivoli carriages and automobiles were still moving.
But in the great thoroughfare the tide of vehicles and foot passengers was perceptibly thinning. Paris is a midnight city, it is true, and at this hour the heights of Montmartre were thronged with pleasure-seekers, dancing and supping till the pale dawn should come with its message of purity and reproach.
But down in the Rue de Rivoli even the great hotels were beginning to prepare for sleep.
One enters the Hôtel des Tuileries, as every one knows, through the revolving doors, passes into the entresol, and then into the huge glass-domed lounge with its comfortable fauteuils, its big settee, its little tables covered with beaten copper, and its great palms, which seem as if they had been cunningly enamelled jade-green by some jeweller.
The lounge was now almost empty of people, though the shaded electric light threw a topaz-coloured radiance over everything.
In one corner—just where the big marble stair-case springs upwards to the gilded gallery—two men in evening dress were sitting together.
They were obviously English, tall, thin, bronzed men, as obviously in the service. As a matter of fact, one was Colonel Adams, attached to the Viceroy's staff in India, the other a civilian's secretary—Henry Passhe.
They were both smoking briar pipes—delighted that the lateness of the hour allowed them to do so in the lounge; and before each man was a long glass full of crushed ice and some effervescing water innocent of whisky.
A man in black clothes, obviously a valet, came up to Colonel Adams.
"I've put everything ready in your room, sir," he said. "Is there anything else?"
"No, there is nothing else, Snell," the soldier answered. "You can go to bed now."
The man was moving away when Adams called him back.
"Oh, by the way, Snell, did you find out what I asked you? It is Mrs. Admaston who is staying here, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir, she is here with her maid, and——"
"Well?"
The man seemed to hesitate slightly, but at length he spoke: "Mr. Roderick Collingwood is here too, sir."
"Is he, by Jove!" Adams said, more to his friend than to his servant. "Very well, Snell. Good night."
The valet withdrew, and Colonel Adams puffed vigorously at his pipe for a minute or two.
"The—the Mrs. Admaston?" the civilian asked.
Colonel Adams nodded. "The great, little Peggy herself," he said; "none other. Surely you've met her, Passhe?"
"I was introduced to her some months ago at a Foreign Office reception," the younger man answered; "but I really can't say that I know her. I've never been to any of the Admastons' parties. In fact, my dear Adams, I am a little bit out of things in town now. Ask me anything about any of the Indian set and I can tell you, but as far as society goes in London I am a back number. I won't say, though, that I haven't heard this and that about the Admastons. One can't go anywhere without hearing their names. However, I know nothing of the rights or wrongs of the story—if story there is at all. But certainly every one has heard this man Collingwood's name mentioned in connection with that of Mrs. Admaston. Who was she, any way? You know everything about everybody. Tell me all about them."
Colonel Adams sipped his Perrier quietly, and his brown, lean face became unusually meditative.
"Aren't you sleepy?" he said.