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that?" he asked imperturbably.

      "Of what happened that night on board the Marguerite."

      He looked at her, surprised, and then interested.

      "Of course," he answered, "of course. The very thing. I had forgotten all about it. Yes, you must tell David. You or I must tell him. That will do the trick, I expect. I should make a better story of it than you——"

      "What do you mean? I needn't tell him if I don't choose."

      "David is really a remarkable person, full of prejudices, yet with an underlying sentimentality that can rise and veil him as the fog veils this room."

      He spoke as if to himself, as if he had no auditor, and was experimenting with phrases as he did in the solitude of his own library. "Yes, the story must be told," he went on thoughtfully.

      She said rudely, but a little uneasily:

      "That's what you call 'bluffing,' I suppose?"

      He roused himself from his mood, and observing her uneasiness, began to tease her.

      "That is it: you have guessed it, of course. One can always trust the quick wit of a chorus girl. What you must do now is to call my bluff. Send for David; ring him up on the telephone."

      "I've half a mind to do it."

      "I suppose you really are unaware that you have only half a mind altogether, or rather less? Tell me, now, have you been thinking all these months that you had a hold over me?"

      He smiled at her and settled himself more comfortable on the sofa, nursing his leg and continuing to talk. "Did you think I sent you to Paris to get you out of the way, to keep you quiet? Go on: tell me all of your thoughts."

      "You are a perfect devil. I don't believe you care about anything or anybody. Mr. Devenish is as different as possible."

      "Of course I am different from anybody else. Haven't you found that out before? What a quaint, absurd little person you are; not real at all. If I had invented you I should have invented you just as you are."

      She was half crying, and said chokingly:

      "I believe you'd be glad to get rid of me."

      "No. You are not in the least in my way. Sometimes you please me extremely."

      "If I say 'Yes' to David I shall tell him everything. I couldn't marry and keep such a secret from him."

      "Couldn't you? I didn't know."

      "You do nothing but jeer at me."

      "Don't you believe it. I am feeling very sympathetic to you, and a little grateful. You are showing me the mechanism of the transpontine melodrama mind in working order."

      "I wish you were dead."

      "Do you really care for me as much as that?"

      "I hate you."

      "I know—they always do. And because you love me and hate me, hardly knowing which, I shall have to intervene and save you from marrying that good fellow David Devenish."

      "He won't think you a good fellow when I tell him what I know about you."

      "Won't he? I am not sure."

      "You won't laugh presently."

      "Are you about to consign me to a cold and 'ke-ruel' jail? Shall I go forth from this warm and wicked flat with gyves upon my wrists. It is a wicked flat, by the way, and will be so described in the evening papers."

      She did not understand him in the least, but he succeeded presently in goading her to the telephone.

      "Westminster 4638! Are you there? Is that Mr. Devenish's flat? Oh, I didn't know it was you. I wish you'd come round here."

      Obviously, David Devenish expressed himself overjoyed at the invitation.

      "Now? Oh, yes! whenever you like. No, I don't know about lunch."

      She hung up the receiver and said excitedly to Keightley:

      "He'll be here in ten minutes. What are you going to do?"

      "Do? What am I going to do? Why, stay and criticise your skill as a raconteuse, of course. What did you expect me to do? Little idiot! Come here." He smiled, making room for her on the sofa. She hesitated, and then, as if hyrpnotised, went over to him slowly. "That's right One gets a sense of purring pleasure out of you sometimes, after all." There was an interval, during which he kissed her, played with her a little. He was amazingly attractive to women, and this one was particularly easy. Afterwards he said: "But what have you, and such as you, to do with marriage? That's not your affair at all."

      "David adores me." She pouted.

      "David knows nothing about women."

      "You are very unkind."

      But she nestled against him, nevertheless, for she was of that easy type. And he went on caressing her carelessly.

      "I thought you didn't care for me any more," she whispered.

      "You are a harp upon which I no longer play, an exquisite eighteenth-century harpsichord. Tell me, do your strings still vibrate for me?"

      "You were ever so much nicer before I went to Paris." She nestled closer.

      "Was I? I don't think I could ever have been more tolerant. This coat will never be wearable again: the mixture of cream and powder you are depositing upon it defies even turpentine. Is it your idea, by the way, that David Devenish should discover us in this attitude: that with your head upon my shoulder you will tell him your ger-r-uesome tale?"

      "I forgot he was coming. I don't want to tell him anything. Can't I say I'm out; that I've changed my mind?"

      But already the bell rang. The fog had thickened, and through it David Devenish's voice was heard in the hall.

      He came in with both hands extended. But seemed surprised to see Keightley lounging familiarly on the sofa, and pulled himself up shortly.

      Ellaline, who had risen before his entry, began quickly to talk about the fog, saying mendaciously and unnecessarily that Keightley had only just come in. David felt at once that there was something in the atmosphere, tense and unexpected, to which Keightley Wilbur's presence was the cue. Keightley was self-possessed and appeared amused.

      "She sent for me to consult me as to your proposal. I stand in loco parentis to her, as you possibly know."

      A faint colour showed in David's face, but he made no other sign of anger.

      "I understand you have been helpful to her," he said stiffly, without any indication of feeling.

      "The fact is," Keightley drawled—he seemed to be enjoying himself, which was certainly not the case with either of the others—"we are both of us a little uncertain as to whether, before answering 'Yes' or 'No' she ought not to tell you a certain story. … "

      "I don't know what he is talking about," she interrupted, going over to the fireplace, speaking in nervous haste. "Don't listen to him, David: he is only gassing."

      "My words are the words of wisdom. Listen, Devenish … "

      "If it is Miss Blaney's pleasure?"

      "Whether it is Miss Blaney's pleasure or not. But you like to hear me talk, don't you, Ellaline?"

      "No, I don't," she answered shortly.

      There was an interchange of uncomplimentary sentences between them. David felt irritated, and wished Keightley would be silent. He had not expected to meet him here to-day, and was embarrassed, as any man would be under the circumstances. But in a minute his ear caught the name of Pierre Lamotte, and then his attention was riveted. Since he had fallen so incongruously in love, he had forgotten his suspicions and all the details of the inquest. Now he remembered, and quite suddenly he feared what it was that Keightley insisted upon telling

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