you so reliable. Miss Squires said—dear! dear! Not those dreadful foreign police, making an international incident out of it. Wait there till I call you back. What’s your number?”
“Can I get a call here?” Kate whispered frantically.
This was the signal for a great deal more arguing to go on, but finally it was agreed that if it came in a reasonable time it would be permitted. It was the best that could be done. Sitting in the stuffy office waiting for the telephone to ring, catching the hostile glances of French officials who thought her infinitely careless, to say the least, to lose a child on a journey—if there had been a child—Kate realized what the note beneath Mrs. Dix’s breathlessness and alarm had been. Not disappointment. Fear.
Or had she imagined that, too? Had she imagined everything, even the small shabby doll, Pepita, packed now in her capacious handbag?
But the second call, when it came, was complete anticlimax. Mrs. Dix’s voice bubbled over with reassurance.
“Kate dear, not to worry. Everything’s all right. Francesca’s home.”
“In Rome?” Kate gasped.
“Yes, with her father. He’s very bad and quite unscrupulous. When she had gone he suddenly decided he couldn’t bear it, or perhaps it was spite against Rosita, of course, but he telephoned some friends in Basle and had Francesca taken off the train. At a moment when you were not observing, of course.”
“But how extraordinary!” Kate gasped.
“Isn’t it?” Mrs. Dix’s voice was full of cheerfulness. “He’s nothing better than a brigand. Giving you all this worry, poor Kate. Rosita is broken-hearted, naturally. She wants you to stay in Paris for a day just in case we have any further instructions for you. Go to the Hôtel Imperial in the Rue St. Honoré. And get a rest. You must be worn out. We’ll call you there if we need you. And fly home in the morning. Miss Squires will arrange for your air ticket to be sent to the hotel.”
“Mrs. Dix, are you sure Francesca’s all right?”
“I can only tell you what that rogue has told me. And quite unashamedly. He thinks he’s very clever, in fact. But in case he should repent, which is unlikely, Rosita thinks you should stay until tomorrow.”
“I’ve messed it up so badly.”
“My dear, no one could have anticipated this. You said there was an Englishman?” Mrs. Dix’s voice lilted naughtily. “And you’re in Paris. Go and have fun.”
Kate put the telephone down slowly. She gathered that everyone listening had got the gist of the conversation, for there were wreathed smiles and shrugging shoulders.
“What did I tell you?” said the now affable guard. “She flew out of the window, pouf!”
“It has been a storm in a soup plate, no?”
It was only Lucian who was not smiling. He was looking at her with a long, curious, thoughtful look, neither surprised nor relieved at the solution to the small drama, but rather as if when he had persuaded her to ring London he had known exactly what the result would be. And almost as if it amused him a little.
But why should it be amusing? She herself felt remarkably far from mirth. For apart from the pathos of it—Francesca, lonely and bewildered, snatched away from her promised party, deprived of her favourite doll, and bundled back to Rome, like so much merchandise, probably to the rather grim Gianetta and the squalid little house off the via Appia—there had been that strange note of fear in Mrs. Dix’s voice.
Even during her second call, when she had bubbled over with cheerfulness, Kate had calmly and uneasily sensed the apprehension. What, in the foolish and abortive episode, would make her afraid?
FIVE
T HE GENTLE CLICK OF the door opening aroused Kate late in the afternoon.
“Who is it?” she asked sleepily, not fully aware of where she was, or why she had been asleep when afternoon sunshine was still filtering through the windows.
There was no answer.
She sat up, blinking and looking at the
“Can I get a call here?” Kate whispered frantically.
This was the signal for a great deal more arguing to go on, but finally it was agreed that if it came in a reasonable time it would be permitted. It was the best that could be done. Sitting in the stuffy office waiting for the telephone to ring, catching the hostile glances of French officials who thought her infinitely careless, to say the least, to lose a child on a journey—if there had been a child—Kate realized what the note beneath Mrs. Dix’s breathlessness and alarm had been. Not disappointment. Fear.
Or had she imagined that, too? Had she imagined everything, even the small shabby doll, Pepita, packed now in her capacious handbag?
But the second call, when it came, was complete anticlimax. Mrs. Dix’s voice bubbled over with reassurance.
“Kate dear, not to worry. Everything’s all right. Francesca’s home.”
“In Rome?” Kate gasped.
“Yes, with her father. He’s very bad and quite unscrupulous. When she had gone he suddenly decided he couldn’t bear it, or perhaps it was spite against Rosita, of course, but he telephoned some friends in Basle and had Francesca taken off the train. At a moment when you were not observing, of course.”
“But how extraordinary!” Kate gasped.
“Isn’t it?” Mrs. Dix’s voice was full of cheerfulness. “He’s nothing better than a brigand. Giving you all this worry, poor Kate. Rosita is broken-hearted, naturally. She wants you to stay in Paris for a day just in case we have any further instructions for you. Go to the Hôtel Imperial in the Rue St. Honoré. And get a rest. You must be worn out. We’ll call you there if we need you. And fly home in the morning. Miss Squires will arrange for your air ticket to be sent to the hotel.”
“Mrs. Dix, are you sure Francesca’s all right?”
“I can only tell you what that rogue has told me. And quite unashamedly. He thinks he’s very clever, in fact. But in case he should repent, which is unlikely, Rosita thinks you should stay until tomorrow.”
“I’ve messed it up so badly.”
“My dear, no one could have anticipated this. You said there was an Englishman?” Mrs. Dix’s voice lilted naughtily. “And you’re in Paris. Go and have fun.”
Kate put the telephone down slowly. She gathered that everyone listening had got the gist of the conversation, for there were wreathed smiles and shrugging shoulders.
“What did I tell you?” said the now affable guard. “She flew out of the window, pouf!”
“It has been a storm in a soup plate, no?”
It was only Lucian who was not smiling. He was looking at her with a long, curious, thoughtful look, neither surprised nor relieved at the solution to the small drama, but rather as if when he had persuaded her to ring London he had known exactly what the result would be. And almost as if it amused him a little.
But why should it be amusing? She herself felt remarkably far from mirth. For apart from the pathos of it—Francesca, lonely and bewildered, snatched away from her promised party, deprived of her favourite doll, and bundled back to Rome, like so much merchandise, probably to the rather grim Gianetta and the squalid little house off the via Appia—there had been that strange note of fear in Mrs. Dix’s voice.
Even during her second call, when she had bubbled over with cheerfulness, Kate had calmly and uneasily sensed the apprehension. What, in the foolish and abortive episode, would make her afraid?
FIVE
T HE GENTLE CLICK OF the door opening aroused Kate late in the afternoon.
“Who is it?” she asked sleepily, not fully aware of where she was, or why she had been asleep when afternoon sunshine was still filtering through the windows.
There was no answer.
She sat up, blinking and looking at the
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