The sun shone brilliantly on a crisp autumn morning when the launch from Sältsjöbaden sighted the island, while the wind blew freshly and the sea spouted with strong conflicting currents. The craft carried five muscular young men, in addition to Torch who had organised the rescue party. With the exception of himself all were in excellent spirits, but he was feeling both apprehensive and worried.
While the others were still on holiday, he had to leave his business and spend valuable time on a highly speculative venture. In addition, he had been obliged to pay the expenses of his brother's friends—two young schoolmasters—and the hire of the motor-launch, which included the services of the two Swedes who ran her.
Fortunately her owner spoke English, so was able to locate the island from the description supplied to them by Miss Jones. He also told them the history of the building of the house—at present leased to a Mr. Oppenheimer.
Osbert was quietly jubilant at the suppression of the Count's name, although Torch pointed out that the fact of its being either lent or sub-let to him, was not proof of insolvency. As the other two young men were fraternising with the Swedes, he took the opportunity to caution his brother.
"No stunt. We've got to go slow. Feel our way."
"Definitely."
Osbert had been trained to conceal his feelings and was now transmitting the tradition of national reserve to the boys under his control. His handsome face was wooden, but his eyes burned as he added, "It will depend on her. If she's got your letters, she'll be watching for us. She'll rush to meet us. Bound to."
"If she has," agreed Torch. "Wonder what she thought of my postscript. I defy any one, besides herself, to read between the lines."
He forgot his distasteful mission as he grinned over the subtlety of his message, added as an afterthought to his formal acknowledgement of her manuscript.
"Your card makes me feel I want to go to Bruges and revive old memories."
As they drew nearer to the island, the solid white structure of the house became visible. They could trace the wide sweep of the impressive flights of steps and the coloured blur of flowering shrubs planted on the slopes. Then, as they shot around one end, in a curve, Osbert drew a deep breath.
"Look. The room where she writes. She'll be there."
The sun was shining on the glass and dazzling their eyes as they strained for the sight of a face at the window. They could hear the distant roar of turbulent water and see the rise and fall of a white wall of spray against the rocks. But no one appeared to watch their arrival from the balconies which almost encircled the house.
"She'll be waiting on the landing-quay," said Osbert.
As they took a wide sweep around the island, to avoid the reef, they saw a small boat which was rowed by a big man, wearing national costume. In it were two small girls, dressed chiefly in enormous hats. The sun shone on their bronzed muscular bodies as they cast fishing lines into the sea.
"Who are the young Tarzans?" asked one of Osbert's friends.
"Mrs. Yeo's children," explained Torch.
The youth raised his brows incredulously.
"Chap must be a sportsman to include the family in his kidnapping act," he remarked. "Nice cheap holiday for the children."
"I agree," said Torch grimly. "I'm beginning to think we've come to the wrong house...It's this modern standardisation."
"Exactly. These all in a row islands are so much alike."
Unaffected by the general scepticism, Osbert was waving vigorously to the children. They acknowledged his greeting, but in the perfunctory manner of one craft hailing another. It was obvious that they neither expected nor recognised their friends; and they made such a happy holiday picture, that Torch's heart sank with fresh misgiving.
This was increased when they rounded the last bend and reached the landing-stage. No reception party awaited them except a big tow-haired Swede, wearing yellow breeches and a huge black felt hat.
He spoke to the owner of the launch who translated his message.
"He says the Count has sent him to show you the way up to the house. He is sorry he cannot come himself, but the Countess has just had a slight accident."
"What?" asked Osbert quickly.
"She has sprained her ankle...Will you be staying for the Smörgåsbord?"
"No, we shall soon be back. Wait for us here."
Leaving the Swedes on the quay, the Englishmen started to follow their guide through the wood, when they were sidetracked by one of Osbert's friends. He had discovered the rock-steps which led down to the swimming-pool and he shouted to the others to follow him.
The sun shone down on the sheltered bath, where a swollen rubber monstrosity was left in possession of the clear green water. Gay coloured cushions were piled on the mattresses which were littered with the customary accumulation of holiday trifles. It looked unlike the background to intrigue or crime and invited a longer stay. One of the young schoolmasters was visibly impressed as he spoke to Torch.
"Any chance of the bloke kidnapping me over the weekend? You might tip him off I'm a millionaire playboy."
Still untouched by doubt, Osbert strode ahead of the others impelled by the force of his desire. He had worked himself up to a fury of exaltation, when he saw himself as a Saint George—or a G-man—on a crusade of rescue. Although he lacked his brother's imagination, he kept picturing the scene of joyous reunion and release so vividly that he felt reproach of every wasted minute.
When he emerged from the trees, he waited for the exhausted and panting tail to reach the lawn. Mopping his face, Torch turned to the two young men. They were not entirely in Osbert's confidence and had come to Sweden on the vague understanding that they would "stand by in case of a scrap."
"What about parking here?" he suggested. "We shan't be long."
Having left the young men stretched out on deck chairs, the brothers were walking towards the house, when the Count hurried down the steps to meet them. His smile was cordial—his hand outstretched in welcome.
"This is famous," he said. "Delighted to see you both...Your friends too. Won't they come in?"
"No thanks," replied Torch mechanically. "We've just dropped in for a short time."
"But that is too bad. I will have drinks sent out to those young men...Come in, my dear fellow, come in. Georgia is waiting to see you."
"Where is Georgia?" asked Osbert, speaking with an effort.
He had thought so often of this meeting—visualising it through a red mist of violence; but the Count's manner had reduced them to the level of conventional guests. Instead of assault, he was hypnotised to nod to his host, although he managed to avoid the hypocrisy of shaking hands.
As the Count led the way through the cool cavern of the hall, he answered Osbert's question.
"Georgia is in the drawing-room, resting her foot. A silly little accident. She turned her ankle on the steps. It is really nothing—only she can't walk for a day or so."
Too dazed and confounded to notice details, Osbert stumbled into the drawing-room. He received a vague impression of space, air and sunlight—of delicate colours and water-reflections dancing on ceiling and walls. Every window framed a panel of rough greenish sea and the breeze carried a faint perfume of heliotrope from the garden.
To him, it appeared as a vast desert which held the oasis of Georgia's divan. The bandaged foot was outstretched on the seat, as evidence of her injury. She wore a white dress and her face looked oddly brown in contrast with her cloudy hair—pale as moonshine.
As she looked at him, he saw the light leap into her eyes. They shone like stars, glowing with love and longing...But before he reached the divan, the flame sank down and died. In a moment of shattering disillusionment, he realised that the oasis was merely a mirage, as she welcomed them with the set smile of a formal hostess.
Then he felt his brother's hand gripping his arm.
"Leave it to me," he muttered.
Torch's own voice was cheerfully unconcerned as he greeted Georgia.
"I'm so glad to see you again. What bad luck about the ankle."
"Isn't it?" Her laugh sounded artificial. "Today of all days. I'm thrilled to see you. Osbert too...But you don't know Mrs. Vanderpant."
"I do. We've met in Brussels. May I introduce my brother?"
When he was presented to an acid and dignified dowager, Osbert was reminded of certain impressive ladies he had met in Cathedral cities. He managed somehow to respond to her conventional remarks while the Count hospitably offered cigars and drinks.
"Nothing for us, thanks," said Torch quickly. "We are both on the wagon."
He was growing acutely perplexed by the situation. Georgia's attitude seemed proof that they had been misled by their imagination. She had made no signal of distress, while her welcome hinted at an intrusion on her honeymoon. There was no doubt that she was obsessed by the Count, for even while she talked to them, she kept her eyes fixed upon him.
Suddenly he began to wonder whether she feared for the safety of her friends, as in the case of Miss Jones. As he worked round to a chance to reassure her, the Count cleared the way.
"Even if you won't have a drink, you must stay to lunch. All of you. How many are in the launch?"
"Two," replied Torch. "Six of us in all. Too big a party to inflict ourselves on you uninvited."
As he spoke, he glanced expectantly at Georgia.
"That will tell her we are not outnumbered," he thought. "We are not being covered by hidden gunmen. She's got a tongue in her head. She's only got to speak."
She opened her lips—but only to inquire about her mother.
"Have you seen her lately?"
"Just before I came away. She sent her love and messages:"
"Oh, what?"
"Private. I will tell you later—if the Count won't object."
"How absurd of her to be mysterious. Did Miss Jones tell you about her visit to us?"
"She told us quite a lot."
As Osbert remarked the significance of Torch's voice, he began to realise that although he himself was galled by a policy of delayed action, his little cock-sparrow brother might be wise in not rushing the situation. That he was feeling his way was evident, for his casual remarks could convey a hint or double meaning.
"The children are grand," broke in the Count, smiling at Georgia. "Did you see them in the boat?"
"I certainly saw a pair of beautiful young savages. I was afraid they might be cannibals. They did not seem to recognise us."
"Not at that distance. Besides, you were not expected."
"I'll wave to them from the balcony," said Osbert, rising from his chair.
"No." Georgia's voice was sharp. "Don't go, Osbert. I want to talk to you. When you are gone, I shall remember all the things I wanted to ask you about. How did the School Sports go off?"
Grateful of a chance to be near her, Osbert seated himself beside the divan. He did his best to entertain her, but he knew he was not holding her interest. Although he caught an occasional glimpse of the real Georgia—in a flash of glance or smile—he had the baffling sensation of a palpable barrier between them, as though he were seeing her through a sheet of thick glass.
At other times, he felt that although he could stretch out his hand and touch her, actually she was not there at all—but that he was talking only to her reflection in the mirror.
In his turn, his brother was affected by his doubt. He wondered uneasily whether Georgia were a victim of mental domination—the most insidious and difficult tyranny to overcome. It would be easier to smash a full muster of gangsters—unarmed and single-handed—than to shake her allegiance.
Something was wrong—but he could not place his finger on the spot. He noticed how Georgia suddenly bit her lip when he inquired about the nephew, Clair.
"He's at the awkward age," explained Mrs. Vanderpant. "Shy—and invisible to visitors."
Losing patience with the condition of stalemate, Torch decided to give the Count a hint of his purpose.
"I've read the first part of your novel, Georgia," he said. "I like it, but the end is too vague. If you let your heroine corrupt the loyalty of one of the gang, he might gain the sympathy of the reader, who won't like it when he gets pinched...Remember, the ethics of a thriller demand that the criminal is punished."
The Count had partially lowered a lid, so that he looked at Torch with one hard little blue eye and one big bright optic.
"Have you any suggestion to offer her?" he asked rolling his handkerchief to a ball and tossing it into the air.
"Gustav," cried Georgia shrilly, "do keep still. You are making me nervous."
"Don't be silly, darling...Well, Torch?"
"I can only throw out a vague hint," said Torch. "Georgia might let her heroine get an S.O.S. through to her agent, telling him about her jam."
"Very simple. How?"
"I'm basely leaving that to her ingenuity. Then this chap could persuade her publisher—who must have some sort of pull—to intervene with Scotland Yard and come over to the island with a small police force. How's that?"
Torch stopped, hoping that he had exposed his hand to Georgia while he bluffed the Count into believing that his visit was an official raid.
"I think," remarked the Count, "that he would find it very difficult to prove. Georgia's villain would probably take the offensive and ram them for heavy damages, if the case ever came into court."
Suddenly Osbert could endure the strain of inaction no longer. Forgetful of the others, he spoke to the woman he loved in a low voice.
"Georgia, we've come to take you home."
To his incredulous dismay, she shrank from him in horror.
"I am home," she reminded him in a small formal voice.
The Count supported her with outraged dignity.
"That is an extraordinary thing to say. You must explain it, please."
"I will," said Torch. "I'm here on an unpleasant mission. Georgia's mother is very distressed about a rumour. It is being said that her daughter is not married to you and that you are holding her here against her will."
"Ah, I'm beginning to understand," broke in the Count. "A certain lady has repaid our hospitality with venomous gossip. And yet I took the trouble to escort Miss Jones from Sältsjöbaden myself, although I had made the double-trip only the day before."
"Is it true?" asked Torch.
"Georgia had better answer that."
"It's preposterous," Georgia spoke with breathless haste. "You mean well—and it's good of you to come so far. But this is very distressing. I—I think you'd better go."
While she spoke, her eyes were fixed on the handkerchief which the Count was twisting between his fingers. She knew that he had forgotten he was holding it. Yet this reckless irresponsible marionette—jerked by each fresh twist of the situation—was juggling with her children's lives.
If he dropped that handkerchief—either accidentally or by design—Clair, who was standing outside on the verandah, would see it fall. Directly it reached the floor, she would wave her white scarf immediately as a signal to the Professor to upset the boat.
Georgia was still stunned by her swift translation from joy to agony and the incredible violence of the attack upon herself. To keep her still and silent, until the Professor could invite the children to a fishing picnic, she had been forcibly held and gagged Taking no notice of her struggles for air, the Count had pressed his hand over her face, while Clair ripped off her stocking and bound a bandage around her ankle with remorseless tightness.
The room was beginning to grow dark when the weight over her mouth was removed and a drink forced down her throat. As she swallowed mechanically, she realised that she was looking into merciless granite-grey eyes.
"Listen," said Mrs. Vanderpant, speaking slowly and distinctly, as though to a child or imbecile. "You have just sprained your ankle, so you cannot go to meet your friends. They must suspect nothing. Or your children will suffer."
"Where are they?" Georgia managed to whisper.
"Fishing. With the Professor...If you don't send your friends away, there will be an accident. There won't be a chance to rescue them. The Professor will dive first to save them. They will be held down underneath the boat."
As Georgia stared at them, terrified to open her lips, lest she should precipitate a tragedy, Clair spoke with savage hatred.
"He's my man. If—if they take him away, your children are for it."
Even in the, midst of her own agony Georgia could tell that the girl was maddened with fear. Like a jungle beast whose mate is threatened by a snare, she was past all reason or remorse.
It was this certainty of Clair's revenge which sealed Georgia's lips and forced her to try and convince her friends that all was well with her. There were times when she was on the point of breaking her silence. As her brain cleared, she reasoned that the threat was in the nature of a bluff. If she exposed the gang, the death of the children would be useless—and even dangerous—sacrifice.
It was the thought of the executioner—devoid of emotion or imagination—callously waiting for a white flutter from the balcony, which drove her on to seal her own doom.
"You had better go."
In spite of her appeal, Torch stood his ground.
"I've come a long way," he reminded them. "Before I go, I must have some definite information for Georgia's mother. Will you tell me where you were married—and when?"
"I see no reason why I should," said the Count arrogantly.
"Will you show me your marriage certificate?"
"I will not. Your request is an insult. You claim to be married yourself. Has anyone doubted it?"
"This is different. In view of the gossip, I think you would be wiser to be frank."
"Thank you. At the proper time, I shall produce the proof of my marriage—should an occasion arise."
Georgia listened to the duel with dulled despair. The bandage around her ankle was so tight that her leg was beginning to swell, but she was numbed to pain. Now that it was too late, it was torture to realise that she should have foreseen an attack which had burst like a bombshell, out of the blue. Ever since she had received Torch's letter and interpreted its postscript, she had been in a dream of happy expectancy.
"I should have been watching day and night," she told herself. "I shouldn't have let the children out of my sight. I should have locked them in my room with me."
She noticed that Harvey was looking at his brother as though to signal retreat. Instead of moving, however, Osbert turned to her.
"Let me see that lucky bracelet I gave you," he said.
"It's broken," she replied. "The day Miss Jones was here. It fell into the sea."
"Yet you were wearing it in this photograph, taken a week later, according to the date."
"Let me see."
As the Count stretched out his hand to take the snapshot, he dropped the handkerchief which he was twisting nervously in his fingers. It fluttered towards the floor, but before it could reach the carpet he recovered it in a sudden swoop.
"That's nothing," he said impatiently.
"Nothing," agreed Osbert, "except that you were able to produce the photograph of a happy woman...Look at her now."
Unable to meet their eyes, Georgia covered her face with her hands.
"Please go," she said.
"Do you want to go with them?" asked the Count. "Remember, you are a free agent. There's nothing to prevent you from walking out of this house with these men."
"No. No."
"Then there's nothing more to be said. Good-bye, Georgia. Come on, Osbert."
Forced to accept defeat, Torch walked towards the door; but Osbert did not follow him. He remained, looking at Georgia with eyes of longing, as though he could not bear to leave her.
Suddenly he gave a start of annoyance.
"That bandage is far too tight," he objected. "Who put it on?"
"I did," replied Mrs. Vanderpant. "A strained tendon requires to be strapped firmly."
"But you've stopped the circulation. Her leg is swollen. As you have no doctor, I'd better have a look at it. I walked King's for a year, so I know something about it."
"I will not permit such a liberty," objected the Count.
Ignoring him, Osbert looked at his brother, whose face had grown keen with suspicion.
"Considering the times Georgia and I have bathed together, how does this Victorian prudery strike you?" he asked.
"It makes me wonder if there is anything wrong with that ankle," replied Torch.
"I'll soon find out."
Georgia's eyes were fixed upon the handkerchief which the count was rolling to a ball between his palms. Tossing it to the floor, he gripped Osbert's arm...
He had forgotten the signal. Mad with terror, Georgia sprang from the divan.
"No, Clair," she screamed. "No. Don't wave. It was an accident."
As her numbed foot gave way under her, Osbert caught her in his arms; but she fought to free herself.
"My children," she cried wildly. "He's drowning my children. Let me go."
Breaking free, she staggered to the balcony and then stood—. staring out at the sea.
At a safe distance from the submerged reef, a small boat rocked gently on the waves. The children were winding up their lines, while the Professor waved a red handkerchief in response to Clair's frantic signals from the balcony.
At the sight of Georgia, he unshipped his oars and began to row around to the landing-stage.
Too stunned to move or speak, Georgia remained watching the boat. Her face was rigid as though she were unable to believe what she saw. Then suddenly she snatched up her bag, and—limping as she ran—hurried down the steps.
The Count, who had regained his composure, looked after her with a smile.
"Rank hysteria," he remarked. "I warn you, Torch, that you will find the rest of her complaints to be fabrications. The lady has such a vivid imagination."
"We will go into that later," said Torch. "And as soon as I can get going, I will relieve you of all your responsibilities."
The brothers met Georgia and the children before they reached the quay. As Merle and Mavis galloped forward, Torch braced himself to receive their charge, while Georgia flung herself into Osbert's arms. After an emotional interlude, Harvey broke loose and looked down between the pines to the sea.
"Where's the big chap who was rowing the children?" he asked.
With defiant air, Georgia pointed to the track of foam which was curling in the wake of a receding motor launch.
"The professor's just warming up the engine," explained Mavis casually.
Torch shook his head with a smile.
"Another of your untidy endings," he said. "Very faulty ethics."
Georgia did not hear his criticism for she was still groping to find a solution of the mystery. When she had pushed her bag which contained her money into the Professor's hand, he accepted it without thanks or moving a muscle of his vast red face. His little twinkling eyes told her nothing of what was passing in his mind. She would never know whether he had acted from sordid motives of self-interest, or if his criminal code included an age-limit for victims. There even remained the amazing possibility that Merle had penetrated the dark fissures of his nature and found her way into his heart.
Out of the confusion, one fact emerged. Although in her case his services had not been rendered, it was customary to fee the executioner.
THE END
Across the table, Georgia Yeo looked at her hostess with timid admiration.
"I wonder," she thought, "if the time will ever come when that face will be familiar to me, at meals?"
She was acutely nervous, for she realized that the little dinner-party was a formal occasion when she was on exhibition. This was her great moment—her chance to grasp a future which blinded her with its brilliancy.
At present, she felt almost breathless by the rush of events, as though she were another Alice, whirled relentlessly through the air. It was only ten days since she had left England, for the first time in her life. Since then, much had happened—and it had happened too quickly.
She had come to Brussels and met the Count.
History was made on her first night. She chose to stay at an old-established hotel, patronised by those who preferred an atmosphere of tradition to ultramodern plumbing. Once the mansion of a wealthy family, it preserved its original grandeur of yellowed marble walls and vast gilt-framed mirrors as a background for solid nineteenth-century furniture.
It was situated in the town, amid a tangle of dark narrow streets, so that Georgia was able to gaze through the revolving doors of the lounge and watch the people passing outside. A fine rain was falling so imperceptibly that it was visible only as a sliver through the darkness. It glistened on a procession of umbrellas and the statuary of a fountain, set in the middle of the road.
Inside was the brilliancy of branching electric lights—a constant flux of visitors—a babel of voices speaking an unfamiliar language. As she sat and watched, the novelty of her surroundings thrilled her to excited expectancy. For six years she had looked out, at twilight, always upon the same scene—an empty grey waste, with a distant white line of crawling foam, marking the sea.
She opened her cigarette case, which was the signal for the Count literally to leap into her life, forestalling the waiter with a match.
"Can it be really true?" he asked a minute later. "The clerk at the Bureau tells me that you are Mrs. Yeo—the celebrated writer of so many detective thrillers?"
Faster, faster...When she admitted her identity, the Count swept her away on the current of his exuberant spirits. In his stimulating company, she saw Brussels as a whirling confusion of ancient buildings, cobbled streets, statues, still life paintings of carcasses and dark arcaded dress-shops.
Out of the swarm of impressions there emerged a few indelible impressions. The mellow glory of the gilded houses of the Grand Place seen in a red, watery sunset. The twin towers of St. Gudule's floating in a silvery mist. The massive grandeur of the Palais de Justice, challenging the shock of Judgment Day. The soaring figure of St. Michael glittering in the morning sun. The horror of a picture in the Wiertz Museum—"The Age of Innocence"—which depicted two children burning a butterfly's wings.
Faster, faster...The Count rushed her from place to place, with cyclonic energy. He remained volatile, impersonal and adventurous—running risks with regulations and stamping on convention up to the moment when he formally expressed his wish that she should meet his family.
The pace increased to a breathless whirl after his relatives arrived at the hotel. Mrs. Vanderpant—aunt to the Count—was the widow of a wealthy and distinguished American. She was accompanied by an impressive-looking scientist—Professor Malfoy—and a youth named "Clair"—both connections on the American side. They were installed in the most expensive suite, from whence issued the fateful invitation.
Then, with a grinding jar, everything stopped still and Georgia found herself stationary at the dinner-table.
She was on approval.
The meal was laid in the private sitting-room, which was a chill apartment with a vast expanse of waxed parquet flooring. Starched white net curtains hung at the three long windows, framing narrow slices of cobalt-blue night sky. The golden glow of candlelight was reflected in a large Regency mirror upon the wall.
Georgia could see herself in it—small and very fair, in a backless black dinner-gown. She always looked younger than her age, but to-night, in spite of her efforts at sophistication, she appeared too immature for her writing record.
She moved her head and her reflection vanished.
"I've gone inside," she thought. "That mirror has swallowed so many faces—so many scenes."
Her dislike of seeing herself in the glass dated from her childhood, when her nurse used to hold her up before a large old-fashioned mirror. One night, she dreamed that, instead of seeing her familiar nursery, she looked into a dark smoky place, where strange people with depraved faces drank and played cards.
Her father, who always explained the connection between cause and effect, pointed out that the dream was the logical result of looking at a forbidden volume of Hogarth's engravings.
Although she accepted the moral, she always believed that the mirror had yielded up an evil page from the past.
At the present time, she was in a super-sensitive condition which was a prelude to the temperature she usually ran, as a penalty of excitement. To counteract its effect, she had taken a draught and, as a result, did not feel quite normal.
With the momentary detachment of a spectator, she looked at the others sitting round the table. Her hostess, Mrs. Vanderpant, was elderly, with a clear-cut arrogant face, pinched austere features, and a sunken mouth, expressive of intolerance and pride. In contrast with her chill personality, the Professor's vast florid clean-shaven face was benignant and his voice a melodious gong, although he rarely spoke. He had a shock of snowy curls which shadowed his black eyes, twinkling behind gold-rimmed pince-nez.
The youth, Clair, was too young to count with her. She was conscious of him merely as a sharp-faced youth, in a dinner-jacket. He spoke with an American accent, although his small hands and feet, in conjunction with smooth blue-black hair, suggested a Latin type.
There was another guest, her literary agent, Harvey Torch. He was a pleasant man, but entirely dwarfed by his neighbour. The Count's high-voltage personality eclipsed the rest of the party. He was unusually fair, with sparkling blue eyes and glittering white teeth, so that, whenever he moved or spoke, there was a constant flash and gleam.
Georgia shifted her position in order to see them reflected in the mirror—a reduced but vivid company. Above all, she was conscious of the Count flickering across the dimness of old glass, like streaks of luminous paint glimmering in the darkness.
Her vision blurred and her head began to swim.
"This moment must last," she thought. "One day—perhaps a thousands years hence—some one will look into that glass and see us all sitting round the table, just as we are now...And by then, everything that is going to happen to us, will have happened. We can do nothing then, to help or hinder."
It was this sense of imminent and unknown destiny which weighted down her spirit. She awoke to reality at the sound of her hostess's voice, which, in spite of her effort to be gracious, remained harsh and grating.
"Are you going to visit any other part of Belgium?"
"No," replied Georgia. "I'm going to stay in Brussels, all the time. At the beginning of my visit, I motored through part of the Ardennes."
"You saw some fine scenery."
"Yes, but it was too old and too cruel. There were so many ruins and prisons with horrible oubliettes. They depressed me."
"This is really amusing," laughed the Count. "You are sorry for people who have been comfortably dead for hundreds of years. Yet you are utterly ruthless to your poor characters."
"That's different. I can control my situations. My prisoners are already released."
"But some prisons are quite comfortable. At least, I have been assured so by financial, or rather, high-financial friends...Besides, you told me you had been shut up in one small place, all your life. You've been living in one room. Where is the difference?"
Although she knew he was teasing her, Georgia answered the Count's question seriously.
"The difference is this. I can leave my prison whenever I like...But it must be ghastly to know you have got to stay in one place for ever. Always seeing the same scene, like Napoleon on St. Helena."
As she spoke the room was momentarily blotted out, and she seemed to be looking at the last red gleam of a setting sun reflected on long lines of grey waves, rolling out towards the horizon.
On—on...They moved ceaselessly, but she had to stay and watch that sullen waste of water. A scene of stark desolation. No ray of hope. Doom inexorable...A prisoner.
As though he sensed his client's discomfort, Torch came to her relief with a remark on a topical subject. Released from taking further part in the conversation, she became aware that the youth, Clair, was staring at her with hard, curious eyes. Their hostile expression told her that, for some unknown reason, he disliked her intensely.
Even as the certainty flashed across her mind, she realised that the antipathy was not only mutual, but—in her case—intensified by instinctive repulsion.
His merciless scrutiny turned the meal to a social ordeal. It was a formal and elaborate affair of many courses and wines, with two waiters in constant attendance. The table was decorated with orchids and covered with a cloth of handmade lace.
As she looked at it nervously, Georgia was plunged back into her childhood, when she had been taken to lunch at the Bishop's Palace. She could see again the white damask cloth, patterned with shamrock, as well as spattered with damson juice, which was her own shameful contribution.
Still under the spell of the past, her hand shook so violently when she raised her glass, that she was childishly afraid of spilling her wine. In this company, any slip or lapse from perfect manners might ruin her hopes. She felt overwhelmed by the importance of the issue at stake—crushed by the fact that the Count's relatives were persons of birth, rank and wealth.
"I'm aiming too high," she thought hopelessly. "I'm nothing. Nobody."
She was grateful for the moral support of her agent—Harvey Torch. Although he had been annoyed by the Count's invitation, he had accepted it in obedience to his instinct to protect the interests of others. On this occasion, he was concerned lest his most lucrative client had become friendly with adventurers.
In his character of critical observer he studied his company, excepting Clair, whom he considered negligible. Mrs. Vanderpant looked a typical example of inbreeding during centuries of social prestige, while the Professor bore the hallmark of the Mayflower. The Count, too, appeared a perfect specimen of super-vitality and physical fitness. Although he was middle-aged, it was possible to picture him in earlier years, as a blond youth, running around a stadium with a flaming torch.
The agent decided that they were almost too genuine, besides having the advantages of a successful stage-setting and candlelight. Consequently, he subjected them to his usual method of debunking, which was, to dress them up—in his imaginations—in different clothes.
The mental exercise was justified by results. Stripped of his evening suit and with his hair shorn, the Professor could shape in the ring as a heavyweight bruiser. The boy, Clair, was changed into a vicious young apache, by a dirty jersey and a beret; while the Count could be any type of pleasant scoundrel, common to every quarter of the globe.
Mrs. Vanderpant, alone, defied his efforts to degrade her dignity. Although he reduced her to sordid circles of vice and squalor, she remained triumphantly, the perfect lady in adversity.
As a momentary pause jammed the flow of conversation, the social occasion was marred by a disconcerting incident. Clair, who had never removed his eyes from Georgia's face, suddenly broke his silence with a barrage of questions.
"D'you know Brussels well?" he asked.
"No," Georgia confessed. "This is my first visit."
"Gosh, how did you miss it? Haven't you travelled?"
"No. I—I've never been abroad before."
"Where d'you live?"
"In a small village, on the east coast of England."
"Why?"
"It's quiet for my writing."
"Got a big estate?"
"No, only a cottage."
"How d'you entertain?'
"I have so few friends. I've dropped out of things."
"No family?"
"My mother and my two big girls. Merle and Mavis. They are seven and eight."