Rogues & Company/Chapter 10

, American millionairess, sunned herself on the covered verandah of Bunmouth Spa Hotel. Not since the day when Mr. Pagot-Chump had made his record corner in wheat had she felt the same glow of worldly success. It was not a great success—no members of the aristocracy were gathered round her—but it was at least complete. On either hand the Spa's celebrities, male and female, sipped their tea and listened to her with the respect for millions which is the only form of veneration known to the twentieth century. Mrs. Pagot-Chump, elated and affable, and charming, had just completed her fourth description of the previous night's adventure.

"It isn't the value of the pearls I mind," she concluded pathetically. "James could get me a finer set any day, but it's the associations, and I guess associations can't be bought."

"Indeed not," said her neighbour, a young curate, whose expression eloquently added—"How modest of you to say so."

"The pearls were given me on my wedding-day," Mrs. Pagot-Chump went on. "A friend gave them to me—a very old and dear friend—and I'd give the world to have them back." She smiled archly, and her guests, who acted as a sort of, simpered after her.

"Pearls stand for tears," said an elderly spinster, with a coy and significant glance.

"Somebody's gain is somebody's loss," added the curate gallantly sententious.

"Which reminds me of a sad case of a dear friend of mine," continued Mrs. Pagot-Chump, who had been carefully leading up to this point. "I take it you have all read in the noospapers about the poor young French nobleman who lost his memory under most distressing circumstances?"

"Of course. He was found unconscious on a doorstep, wasn't he?" put in the spinster, determined on proving her up-to-dateness.

"That's the man. Such a romantic affair! He couldn't remember anybody—not even the young lady who had run away from home to marry him. I was mighty upset when I heard about it. We were great friends out in the States—a nice, cute young fellow and of the very best French family, you know."

By this time the tea-party, as was expected of them, had put two and two together, with the result that the rejected suitor whose significant present of a pearl necklace had been stolen, was raised promptly into the ranks of the French peerage.

"Why—let me think!" exclaimed the curate eagerly. "Aren't you talking of the Count de Beaulieu?"

"Sure I am," said Mrs. Pagot-Chump, well content that the title should be out at last.

"Well, then—he's staying in this very hotel. I saw him arrive last night!"

Mrs. Pagot-Chump flushed with genuine delight. This opportunity of proving her connection with "the best French families" was worth more than any pearls to her, and the fact that the connection in question had been bought by a large monetary loan out of James Pagot-Chump's pocket did not in the least detract from its value.

"You don't say!" she exclaimed. "Well, now, if that isn't real quaint! And to think I didn't know! The world's only a pocket handkerchief after all! I wonder what brought him here?"

"If I'm not much mistaken, the Count de Beaulieu is coming towards us this very minute," said the curate.

Mrs. Pagot-Chump looked up, very elate and a little nervous. She was shrewd enough to know that there is a class of aristocrat whose degree of friendship for his democratic friends varies with the fluctuation of his own particular money-market and at the time of their acquaintance the Count had been very "low" indeed. In spite of her preparedness, however, she was only just able to suppress a gasp, for the young man who was coming towards her was not the Count de Beaulieu as she had known him. Her mind, once having grasped that fact, worked with amazing rapidity. Somebody "had been done in the eye" as James would have expressed it in his Anglo-American phraseology. If this was the Count de Beaulieu, then the person who had paid her such marked attention and had borrowed from her husband with such inimitable grace was nothing better than a mountebank and a fraud. In which case she would become a laughing-stock, she would be disgraced and her social prestige held up to ridicule. The possibility was too awful—the risk too serious. She rose briskly and murmuring "Excoose me, won't you? Old friend, you know," she tripped to meet the mysterious stranger. Like a good general she had decided quickly and her plan of action once made she meant to stick to it. By hook or by crook she was going to talk to that young man, she was going to hold him in an amicable conversation, she was going to win him over to an appearance of intimacy. It was a big undertaking, but with the eyes of Bunmouth Spa on her, defeat was unbearable and unthinkable. Trusting to her national fluency and considerable personal charms, she advanced to do battle, and to her amazement—infinitely to her relief—the young man lifted his hat.

"Mrs. Pagot-Chump, I believe?" he ventured. He was evidently nervous—very much more nervous than Mrs. Pagot-Chump was—and that fact gave her back her wavering self-confidence.

"My dear Count!" she exclaimed. "So delighted to meet you again!"

It was a bold stroke, but, as is the way with bold strokes, it succeeded. The Count took the outstretched hand, blushed and stammered—

"I didn't know that I—I had the honour," he said when he had regained a certain degree of coherency. "Indeed I didn't know that I knew anybody here."

"Don't you really remember?" she asked softly and with a touch of smiling reproach.

The Count righted himself—mentally speaking—and smiled back.

"'Pon my word, I don't!" he admitted, "but then perhaps you have heard—I've lost my memory through an accident, you know. You might forgive me on that score."

"Of course I will—right away. My name is Pagot-Chump—Mary Pagot-Chump. We met in Noo York. And I'm glad as can be that we've met again. James and I have never forgotten you at any rate."

"It's very nice of you to say so," murmured the Count. He hesitated, digging in the gravel with the point of his stick. "I can't tell you how pleased and relieved I am," he went on jerkily. "It makes it easier for me. I wanted to speak to you—in fact—" he stopped again. "In fact I have a favour to ask," he blurted out.

"Well, suppose you give me your arm," she suggested shrewdly. "When we get away from these good folk you can tell me about it."

He obeyed and she felt that he was trembling. She wondered if this "Count" was also in a "temporary financial embarrassment" and how much his friendship was likely to cost the long-suffering James. Under the circumstances she felt it would be cheap at any price and, conscious of eager, watching eyes, her manner grew increasingly gracious.

"Just you tell me what I can do for you, Count," she encouraged. "Anything is a pleasure when it's for an old friend."

"You are most kind," the Count murmured again. "To tell you the truth all I ask of you is to—er—accept something of—er—value without explanations—in fact without asking questions."

They had reached a solitary by-path in the hotel grounds, and Mrs. Pagot-Chump stopped short.

"Do you realise that it's a woman you're talking to, Count?" she asked.

"Certainly, Mrs. Pagot-Chump."

"Well, then, doesn't it strike you as a rather tall order?"

"I know—I know!" He looked at her with miserable appeal. "I know, but I can't help myself. I must just fling myself blindly on your mercy. There—there are your pearls!"

He fairly thrust them on her and when they were safely in her hands he heaved a sigh of relief. "There—there—I've done it," he said. "You can think what you like. I can't tell you how I came by them—I can't and I shan't. You can send for the police if you like—you have every right to do so—but at any rate I've given them back. Anyhow, sooner or later—" He stopped again, his lips firmly compressed, and Mrs. Pagot-Chump looked at him with an expression of amused interest on her charming face. The recovery of her jewels did not please her half so much as this good-looking and most unusual young man.

"I guess you look honest enough, Count," she observed critically.

"I feel honest," he admitted, though in the tone of one confronted with an enigma.

"And suppose I strangle my femininity, don't ask questions and tell your somnolent police that I've made almost as big a fool of myself as they have?"

"—then count on me as your devoted servant for life!"

Mrs. Pagot-Chump smiled. Not in vain was she the wife of a "Wheat King."

"I guess it's a bargain, Count," she said.

"I guess you're an angel," said the Count with gallant enthusiasm, and kissed the small extended hand.

And it was at that precise and critical moment that the Countess Theodora turned the corner of the shrubbery.

The three members of the trio saw each other simultaneously and there was a short electric silence. The Count dropped the small hand as though he had been struck with paralysis, and Mrs. Pagot-Chump looked from one blank face to the other with a puzzled good-nature.

"If this is the Countess, I guess you might introduce us to one another, Count," she said.

The Count made an effort.

"Theo—this is Mrs. Pagot-Chump," he jerked out,—"an old friend—"

"I am delighted." She came slowly forward, her small graceful head held very high, her face pale but composed. "It seems your memory must be returning," she went on. "This morning you told me—"

"Mrs. Pagot-Chump reminded me of our old acquaintanceship," he interrupted despairingly.

"The Count and I were great friends out in the States," Mrs. Pagot-Chump explained still buoyant and conciliatory. "It's a real treat to have met you, Countess, and if you two would do me the honour to have lunch with me I'd be more than delighted—"

"I thank you—you are most kind. Unfortunately I must ask my husband to accompany me at once. I have just discovered that my boxes have been broken into—and—" She stopped short. The Count closed his eyes in the instinctive endeavour to shut out the coming catastrophe. She had seen the jewel case in Mrs. Pagot-Chump's hand. Nothing could save him now. And yet for the second time in his short disturbed honeymoon the catastrophe hung fire. From afar off—as it seemed to him—Mrs. Pagot-Chump's high-pitched voice was enquiring with natural excitement as to the loss and he heard his wife's cold level answer—"

"No, nothing of the least value was taken, thank you. Still, the matter should be investigated. Louis, if you could spare me a few minutes—?"

He opened his eyes and met her steady gaze with a speechless gratitude. She had deliberately saved him—that was the one thing which stood out clearly in the chaos of his emotions.

"I will come with you at once," he said quickly. "I am sure, under the circumstances, you will excuse us, Mrs. Pagot-Chump."

Mrs. Pagot-Chump bowed her head graciously. She scented mischief and there was already a gleam of understanding in her keen eyes.

"Meet you both again, Count," she said. "And don't forget our bargain!"

In painful silence the Count accompanied his wife down the path which led back to the hotel. The moment Mrs. Pagot-Chump had dropped out of sight the Count stopped short. His face was flushed but resolute.

"Theodora," he said, "you were splendid—I can't thank you enough—"

"I do not want you to thank me at all," she interrupted, "I did it for my own sake. I did not want to admit that—that I was married to a—a—"

"—a what?" he demanded.

"I don't know what to call you."

"—a scoundrel?" he suggested bitterly.

"If you like to dub yourself—yes."

"All the same—I owe you an explanation," he persisted with the determination of despair. "It's extremely hard—"

"So I should imagine." Her lips curled contemptuously. "How long have you known that—that woman?"

"Theodora—I don't know her—"

"You said she was an old acquaintance."

"She said so—I didn't."

She stopped short and looked at him with haughty severity.

"Did you intend those pearls for me or did you not?"

He tried to lie, but his imagination failed him.

"No—I did not—I—"

"Did you take those pearls from my box to give to her?"

"George took them for me—"

"So? You have encouraged an honest man on the road to dishonesty? Really, I am filled with admiration!"

"Theodora—"

She waved his extended hand aside.

"Thank you—you have explained enough. I have quite understood. Your valet made an unfortunate mistake in supposing that so valuable a gift would have been intended for your wife, and I made the worse mistake of believing him. I apologise for the inconvenience I have caused you. At the same time"—and at this point her voice shook—"it would have been kinder if you had told me the truth instead of acting as—as you have done."

"Theo—won't you listen to me?"

"No. If I cared for you, it would be different. As it is, an explanation is unnecessary and stupid."

She walked on, and he followed in seething silence. Her last remark rankled—goaded him to a wild, ridiculous attack.

"If you don't care, I wonder why you are crying?" he asked, with a thin covering of mild curiosity. "Are you perhaps—jealous?"

She turned round on him, crimson with anger, the tears flashing like diamonds in her bright eyes.

"I am not crying—and if I was it would be because—because I hate and loathe you!"

"Oh!" said the Count. He stood and stared after her until the slight, erect figure had disappeared in the porch of the hotel.