Then the unexpected happened. The girl introduce the old comedian's name herself.
"The only pleasant memory I shall preserve of the Palaceum," she said in French, "is my meeting with an old comrade of my youth.
Imagine, I had not seen him for nearly twenty years. Monsieur Mackwayte, his name is, we used to call him Monsieur Arthur in the old days when I was the child acrobat of the Dupont Troupe.
Such a charming fellow; and not a bit changed! He was doing a deputy turn at the Palaceum on the last night I appeared there!
And he introduced me to his daughter! Une belle Anglaise! I shall hope to see my old friend again when I go back to London!"Desmond stared at her. If this were acting, the most hardened criminal could not have carried it off better. He searched the girl's face. It was frank and innocent. She ran on about Mackwayte in the old days, his kindliness to everyone, his pretty wife, without a shadow of an attempt to avoid an unpleasant topic. Desmond began to believe that not only did the girl have nothing to do with the tragedy but that actually she knew nothing about it.
"Did you see the newspapers yesterday?" he asked suddenly.
"My friend," said Nur-el-Din, shaking her curls at him. "I never read your English papers. There is nothing but the war in them.
And this war!"
She gave a little shudder and was silent.
At this moment old Martha, who had left them over their coffee and cigarettes, came into the room.
"There's a gentleman called to see you, sir!" she said to Desmond.
Desmond started violently. He was scarcely used to his new role as yet.
"Who is it, Martha?" he said, mastering his agitation.
"Mr. Mortimer!" mumbled the old woman in her tired voice, "at least that's what he said his name was. The gentleman hadn't got a card!"Nur-el-Din sprang up from her chair so vehemently that she upset her coffee.
"Don't let him come in!" she cried in French.
"Did you say I was in?" Desmond asked the old housekeeper, who was staring at the dancer.
"Why, yes, sir," the woman answered.
Desmond made a gesture of vexation.
"Where is this Mr. Mortimer?" he asked"In the library, sir!""Tell him I will be with him at once."
Martha hobbled away and Desmond turned to the girl.
"You heard what my housekeeper said? The man is here. I shall have to see him."Nur-el-Din, white to the lips, stood by the table, nervously twisting a little handkerchief.
"Non, non," she said rapidly, "you must not see him. He has come to find me. Ah! if he should find out what I have done... you will not give me up to this man?""You need not see him," Desmond expostulated gently, "I will say you are not here! Who is this Mortimer that he should seek to do you harm?""My friend," said the dancer sadly, "he is my evil genius. If Ihad dreamt that you knew him I would never have sought refuge in your house.""But I've never set eyes on the man in my life!" exclaimed Desmond.
The dancer shook her head mournfully at him.
"Very few of you have, my friend," she replied, "but you are all under his orders, nest-ce pas?"Desmond's heart leaped. Was Mortimer's the guiding hand of this network of conspiracy?
"I've trusted you, Monsieur," Nur-el-Din continued in a pleading voice, "you will respect the laws of hospitality, and hide me from this man. You will not give me up! Promise it, my friend?"Desmond felt strangely moved. Was this a callous murderess, a hired spy, who, with her great eyes brimming over with tears, entreated his protection so simply, so appealingly?
"I promise I will not give you up to him, Mademoiselle!" he said and hated himself in the same breath for the part he had to play.
Then he left her still standing by the table, lost in thought.
Desmond walked through the hall to the room in which he had found Nur-el-Din asleep on his arrival. His nerves were strung up tight for the impending encounter with this Mortimer, whoever, whatever he was. Desmond did not hesitate on the threshold of the room. He quietly opened the door and walked in.
A man in a black and white check suit with white gaiters stood on the hearthrug, his hands tucked behind his back. He had a curiously young-old appearance, such as is found in professors and scientists of a certain type. This suggestion was probably heightened by the very strong spectacles he wore, which magnified his eyes until they looked like large colored marbles. He had a heavy curling moustache resembling that affected by the late Lord Randolph Churchill. There was a good deal of mud on his boots, showing that he had come on foot.
The two men measured one another in a brief but courteous glance.
Desmond wondered what on earth this man's profession was. He was quite unable to place him.
"Mr. Bellward?" said Mortimer, in a pleasant cultivated voice, "Iam pleased to have this opportunity of meeting you personally."Desmond bowed and muttered something conventional. Mortimer had put out his hand but Desmond could not nerve himself to take it.
Instead he pushed forward a chair.
"Thanks," said Mortimer sitting down heavily, "I've had quite a walk across the fen. It's pleasant out but damp! I suppose you didn't get my letter?""Which letter was that" asked Desmond.
"Why the one asking you to let me know when you would be back so that we might meet at last!"Desmond shook his head.
"No," he said, "I didn't get that one. It must have gone astray.
As a matter of fact," he added, "I only got back this morning.""Oh, well then, I am fortunate in my visit," said Mortimer. "Did everything go off all right?""Oh, yes," Desmond hastened to say, not knowing what he was talking about, "everything went off all right.""I don't in the least grudge you the holiday," the other observed, "one should always be careful to pay the last respects to the dead. It makes a good impression. That is so important in some countries!"He beamed at Desmond through his spectacles.
"Was there anything left in your absence?" he asked, "no, there would be nothing; I suppose!"Desmond took a firm resolution. He must know what the man was driving at.
"I don't know what you mean," he said bluntly.
